Outside In

by Jennifer Bradbury

  To all who make because they must

  Once more.” The big ugly one steps forward.

  Ram knows this one is named Vijay, but to Ram he is Peach Fuzz, owing to the shadow of a mustache at his upper lip. He’s bigger than he ought to be, compared to the pack he commands. Bigger than Ram certainly.

  Ram weighs the money in his parcel. He’s already got more money in there than he’s ever held at one time.

  He loves this time of year, the monthlong holiday season that starts with Dussehra and closes with Diwali. Others love the season for the parades and the days off from school or work, or the fireworks and pageants, the prayer services, the gatherings of family and friends. Ram loves it because bewakoofs like these always have extra pocket money on account of aunties and uncles sending them gifts.

  Ram’s beaten Peach Fuzz both other times they’ve played. He knows he can win. That’s not what worries him. It’s more the fact that every time he and Daya run into Peach Fuzz and his gang in the park, Daya reminds Ram that Peach Fuzz is the toughest kid in her school. Daya’s only in fourth form, Peach Fuzz is in eighth. But according to Daya, even the eleventh and twelfth formers steer clear of him.

  “You can’t afford to lose to me again,” Ram now tells him.

  “One more,” Peach Fuzz orders.

  That’s the thing about gilli. It’s a simple game. All it requires is a thumb-size piece of wood—tapered on the ends—and a long stick to serve as a danda, or bat. The batter uses the danda to pop the gilli off the ground. Then, while the gilli spins in the air, the batter strikes it again with the danda to hit it as far as he can. It’s a game everyone thinks they’re good at because they’ve all played it dozens of times, either in teams at the park or the schoolyard, or on their own to practice hitting. But Ram has done it thousands of times more. And most always on his own, perfecting the flip and swing and strike of the batting motion while other kids are at school learning maths or at home having dinner with their families.

  Of course, he never lets on how much practice he’s had. So kids see his ratty clothes and his bare feet and his shaggy hair and figure they can take his money easily. But they never do.

  Today was no different. Ram flipped up the gilli with his makeshift bat, and each time sent it farther than the boy who stepped up last to challenge him.

  Tap. Flip. Swing. Crack.

  Clink.

  The pile of rupees grew in Ram’s hand. But every time one of the boys paid up, the pack grew more restless and their glares at Ram and Daya darkened.

  Peach Fuzz digs deep in his pocket and comes up with a few more coins. Ram is tempted, but the little extra isn’t worth the risk of losing this bunch as a source of income. Ram’s made that mistake before. The trick is always to quit when they still think they can beat you. So yes, he could take Peach Fuzz’s last few coins, but he might never get money off him again.

  “Besides,” Peach Fuzz says, almost friendly, “I’ve figured out your trick.”

  “There’s no trick,” Daya says. “He’s just better than all of you. Ram doesn’t need tricks—”

  “Not very sporting to not give me a chance to win back some of our money,” Peach Fuzz says.

  “Neither is being a sore loser,” Daya shoots back, reaching for her school bag. “Let’s go, Ram.”

  “Wait!” Peach Fuzz says. “What if I made it worth your while?” He pulls back his sleeve to reveal the fancy wristwatch Ram noticed before. It is a digital one, with lots of little buttons, an alarm that beeps, and even a little line with the day of the week and month. Ram never knows what day it is. Daya’s father, Mr. Singh, has one just like this that Ram has envied before.

  “I caught you admiring it earlier,” Peach Fuzz says. “It’s a good one. Totally waterproof. And the battery is supposed to last ten years. My mother’s sister just sent it to me all the way from America.”

  Ram guesses the watch is worth a fortune, and even if it isn’t, he’ll likely never have a chance to own something so wonderful again.

  Peach Fuzz knows he has Ram hooked. “You beat me again, and this watch is yours. I beat you, you give back all our money.”

  “You’re not getting your money back, Vijay,” Daya says, “and you won’t even give him the watch when he beats you.”

  Vijay pulls the watch off and offers it out to Daya. “You can hold it. Until after the batting. Good faith.”

  Daya looks at Ram. Ram knows he shouldn’t. He can feel in his bones that this could end very badly. But he can also already feel the perfect weight of that fancy watch on his wrist.

  He starts to pull his best gilli from the parcel.

  “Nahi,” Peach Fuzz says. “We’re not using your good one. We always use that one. This time, I’m picking it.”

  It brings him luck, this gilli, but Ram doesn’t need luck to beat Peach Fuzz. He passes the parcel to Daya.

  Peach Fuzz grins wickedly. His gang whistles and hoots behind him.

  A moment later Peach Fuzz comes up with a sorry excuse for a gilli, but it will do. Ram retrieves the stout branch they were using as danda earlier.

  “You first,” Ram says.

  Peach Fuzz takes the danda and places the gilli on the ground.

  He lines up the shot.

  Tap. Flip. Swing. Crack.

  The hit is good, better than Ram figured on. It sails a good five meters into the grass, halfway to the exercise path where an old uncle on a three-wheeled cycle is making slow circles.

  But Ram isn’t worried.

  Peach Fuzz and one of his boys walk out to fetch the gilli. Peach Fuzz stands on the spot it fell to mark it and sends his minion back to Ram with the gilli.

  Ram doesn’t hesitate. He can’t resist showing off. He drops, hits, and sends the gilli flying with alarming speed. It sails over Peach Fuzz’s head, landing on the cycle track beyond.

  Ram drops the bat. He glances at Peach Fuzz and sees the shock on his face, thinks how the boy looks like a stupid tree planted out of place in the middle of the pitch. Another glance at the rest of the boys and Ram can see they’re all unsure what to do.

  He figures it is time to go. Daya has had the same thought. She’s already halfway to the edge of the park. He jogs to catch up to her. And even though she is sensible enough to get some distance, she isn’t sensible enough to resist the urge to launch one final taunt.

  “Better luck next time,” she shouts with too much glee as she waggles the watch in the air over her head.

  “Daya!” Ram warns her as he collects the bag and watch.

  But Daya can’t stop. “By the way, did you know it only took you thirty-six seconds to lose this fancy watch? I timed you.”

  “Daya—”

  “Get them!” Peach Fuzz shouts.

  Ram and Daya break into a run. At least they have a head start.

  They rocket across the road, diving into the crowd of pedestrians streaming up the sidewalk. It is only a few hundred meters back to their sector. This walk is usually one of Ram’s favorites. All the nicer restaurants in Chandigarh flank this street. Ram often walks extra slow along here just to linger in the good smells of meat roasting in the tandoors, the spicy tang of tamarind, and the slow-simmering creamy dal makhani.

  He bumps into a woman wandering the street selling fresh marigold garlands; a dozen chains of brilliant orange flowers drape over her neck like an exotic shawl.

  “Sorry, auntie!” He pauses long enough to return the fallen ones to her hands and hurries to catch up to Daya.

  “Why did you stop?” Daya puffs, her school bag bouncing against her back.

  “Just keep running! We’ll make it!”

  They skirt the next roundabout, barely pausing at the corner before plunging into the street. An auto rickshaw horn blares at th
em. A cyclist swerves, drops his foot to the pavement, and curses at Ram and Daya as they reach the other corner.

  He thinks of the old man on the bicycle back at the park, thinks again how much easier a bicycle would make escapes like this one.

  Another coordinated chorus of horns and shouting drivers tells Ram that the pack has lost a little ground on him and Daya.

  Good.

  Ram is quick. Plus, he’s not wrapped up in a school blazer and tie and long pants or even wearing shoes to slow him down. But Daya wears her starchy uniform, stiff shoes like the other boys. She’s fast enough, but not as fast as Ram on his own.

  He urges her on. “Almost there!”

  They round the back corner of the sector occupied by the bicycle factory. In the far distance the foothills leading up to Kasauli and Shimla hover on the horizon. Ram loves this time of year in the Punjab, when the air cools and the haze disappears and the mountains return like forgotten old friends. He loves the brilliant red and gold of the trees that line the wide avenues. He loves his city all scrubbed and illuminated for the festivals. He loves it all even though he knows it also means the cold is coming, and months of shivering through the night await him.

  Daya’s father’s building looms halfway up the street on the right. Barely breaking stride, Ram reaches into his pocket and fishes out the small packet Mr. Singh sent Ram to fetch from the post office. “Give this to your father!”

  “Don’t forget my commission!” she says. “Five percent!” Daya peels off toward the square municipal building with its grooved concrete and dark windows.

  “Three!” Ram says, running on, though they both know Daya has to work out the numbers for him anyway.

  Daya bounds up the steps to the front door two at a time. The doorman sees her coming, shuts the door quickly behind her. Then he glares at Ram, shaking his head. All this before the boys round the corner at the end of the street. They’ve not seen Daya disappear. She at least is safe.

  And soon Ram will be too. He shoves the watch in his pocket and lets loose, uncorking the speed he’s been holding back to stay with Daya. He’s near enough now to make it home, near enough to—

  But then he pitches forward, one toe catching on an uneven seam in the concrete. His arms spin as he fights to stay on his feet and his parcel swings up and away. Even though his brain screams at his hand to hold on to the knot, his grip fails. He watches with horror as his bag sails through the iron bars that make up the gate to the bicycle factory.

  Splat. Ram twists and lands on his shoulder in a pile of what he hopes is only mud, but he expects all the luck he awoke with today has already been used up. His parcel lands next to the back wheel of a bicycle leaning against a tree. The gate guard doesn’t seem to have noticed.

  Ram scrambles to his feet.

  He could climb the gate and get his parcel. Or he could beg the guard to get it for him.

  But both would take too much time.

  Ram glances back. Maybe fifty meters away, the pack of boys—a tangle of stupid blue coats, faces as red as the ties they wear—breaks around the corner. From here, they look like one body with ten heads and twenty arms.

  Twenty arms could do a lot of damage.

  It hurts him to do so, but Ram leaves the bag; he can figure out a way to get it later after the boys have grown bored and given up. So before he is spotted, Ram bolts across the road, arrows into his alley, and disappears.

  Ram found the alley last spring, when the rains came and his old spot in the park flooded. Formed by the buildings on either side, the alley was narrow enough to keep the rain from sheeting inside.

  When the rain had let up enough for him to explore, he found he could climb onto the roof of one of the buildings. The roof had a low wall along its perimeter, and a big painted wooden sign mounted to the wall facing the street. The sign had been braced by lumber angled from the flat roof to the back of the sign, and then covered with a few sheets of corrugated metal to keep water from collecting around the base. The space was long enough that if he crawled into the middle, he could stretch out and sleep and stay mostly dry.

  The storefront below him belongs to a dance school. Ram has not seen much of the dancing, but the music plays all hours of the day and covers the noise of his thumping around on the roof. For that he is grateful, though the beat of the banghra sometimes rattles his teeth.

  Now Ram crouches next to his sleeping spot, scanning the street. He pulls the watch from his pocket, buckles it on his wrist. It was worth it, he thinks, to have something so wonderful. He fiddles with the buttons, delighted at the little chirping noises the watch produces. When he has more time, he’ll figure out how to operate the timer like Daya did.

  He tears his eyes away from the fancy watch to look out across the four lanes of traffic below. The Hero Bicycle factory with its tall brick enclosure occupies the better part of the sector it lies in. His bag is still there. Then he scans up the road in both directions. No sign of a blue blazer or a red tie. Good. But Ram will wait another few minutes to be sure the boys are truly good and gone, and to figure out how to talk his way past the guard at the gate of the factory.

  At the south corner of the sector, the little shrine overflows. The pickings are always good this time of year as the festivals come on. Someone cleaned the shrine and repainted the clothes of the figures recently. There are garlands of fresh marigolds draped over the stone arch. Beneath the arch, four painted ceramic figures pose like dolls in a toy-shop window. The first is a blue-skinned man holding a fearsome bow, an arrow set in the notch. Ram knows his name because he once asked a kind old woman leaving a bowl of rice at the shrine who he was. “Lord Rama, child,” she answered, sounding as if she couldn’t believe he’d asked such a question.

  Rama! he’d thought delightedly. So close to his own name. He wanted to know more about the blue-skinned man and his friends, but the woman moved on and the statues remained as mysterious as his own name. A name he could just barely remember being called as a little boy. The girl had called him that before she went away. Now he rubs the clay bead on the red cord inside his shirt like a talisman. When he tries to conjure up her face, he muddles it with that of the beautiful lady standing next to Lord Rama under the arch, the second of the four ceramic figures.

  The third figure, another man, stands behind them, his face grim, skin darker. Ram can never decide if he’s about to attack blue-skinned Rama or if he’s protecting him. And at the feet of the blue-skinned man kneels a figure with the body of a man but the face and tail of a monkey.

  When he dared ask others about the figurines, they ignored him, mumbled about how disgraceful it was that the city was already so full of beggars.

  Ram hasn’t begged for years. He earns his money well enough hitting gilli, even if it does mean he has to outrun some angry opponents now and then. Still, the sidewalk in front of the shrine is full of good things Ram can pilfer for his supper. Little clay bowls of rice, juicy red apples, maybe even a box of sweets—

  The factory whistle cuts short his imaginary feast.

  Siyappa! Is it really so late?

  But the guard is already opening the iron gate, shoving it along like a stubborn cow.

  Supper will have to wait.

  Ram crawls out of his hiding place, runs across the rooftop, jumps to a corrugated metal awning over the back door, and then swings down to the alley.

  When he gets to the street, he’s relieved to see his parcel remains where it fell against the rear tire of the bicycle. But a man, a factory worker, approaches.

  The man is short, shoulders curled forward as he walks, eyes blank as he makes his way to the bicycle. He is sad, Ram decides, or maybe just bored from a whole day spent fitting chains around gears on new bicycles. His dark hair is in need of a trim, but not as desperately as Ram’s own shaggy black curls. The man’s gray cotton tunic and pants are smeared with grease. Another worker calls to him as he comes up to the bicycle, but the man is so distracted that the worker friend shouts
louder. “Hey, Nek!”

  But that’s all Ram hears above the sudden noise of the traffic in the street. The other man nods and walks away. The one called Nek loads a shiny metal tiffin box into the crate mounted on the back of the bicycle.

  Good, thinks Ram, stay distracted. Just ride away and I can fetch my bag.

  Instead Nek bends down to roll up the cuffs of his trousers to keep them from tangling in the bike chain. Then his hands go still around his ankle. He reaches over and picks up Ram’s parcel.

  Oh teri deri! Ram’s hands go to his forehead, his hair, to grab two fistfuls of it. No!

  Nek straightens. He tests the weight of the bag.

  Ram cannot breathe. There is enough money in that bundle for him to eat well for a month. He stands horrified as Nek calls out to the other worker who just spoke to him, gesturing at the parcel. That man shrugs and exits the gate.

  Nek faces the guard, holds up Ram’s bag, the question written in his eyes.

  The guard tilts his head to one side, waves lazily.

  Nek holds the bag in his palm like an offering. After a beat, he drops the bag into the crate and takes the bicycle by the handlebars.

  Ram is already moving, already scheming how best to get his parcel back. Simplest would be asking, explaining what happened. But people don’t listen to boys like Ram. Singh does, but nobody else really. Nobody believes a street kid comes by that much money honestly.

  No. The smartest thing to do is wait until this Nek fellow stops. Then Ram can rush the bike from behind, pinch the parcel from the crate, and melt into the crowd. Nek doesn’t mount the bicycle when he clears the wall surrounding the factory. Good. A little more time.

  Ram begins his approach, careful to keep out of the man’s eye line.

  Nek pauses at the shrine at the corner. He leans the bicycle against his leg and pulls the parcel from the crate. Ram leans back against the brick factory wall and watches from the corner of his eye.

  The man jiggles the bag, and Ram is close enough to hear all those lovely rupee coins jingling. Nek unties the knot.