She Will Build Him a City

by Raj Kamal Jha

  11.49 p.m.

  This isn’t his stop but he steps off the train.

  ~

  All India Institute of Medical Sciences.

  1.5 million patients, 100,000 surgical operations a year, over a thousand doctors and nurses, tons and tons of white cotton wool. Bloodstains, cancer, tumours, trauma, tubes, monitors, oscilloscopes, MRI plates against light frosted white, beeps, blood, IV drips, men, women and children, some newborn, some dead, some dying. He walks towards the hospital, the heatwave so thick it’s like walking through sludge. At the entrance, right next to security, there’s a girl selling a red balloon, with a woman, apparently her mother.

  The balloon stains the night like a drop of blood on a slide.

  ~

  Albert Lamorisse, 1956, Paris, Le Ballon Rouge, he bought the movie DVD via Amazon.com, got it delivered to Aatish’s apartment in New York, Fedexed to him on his birthday. His favourite is the last scene in which a cluster of countless coloured balloons carry the boy across the sky above the city.

  ~

  He asks, ‘How much?’

  Balloon Girl and her mother walk towards him.

  The night is silent except for the light fall of their footsteps. He sees wary smiles in their eyes, trusting in the dark.

  Looks like Red Balloon is leading the girl on.

  ‘Only ten rupees,’ says Balloon Girl.

  CHILD

  City Route

  Orphan’s first day out is planned as an event, carefully choreo­­­graphed by Kalyani Das and Dr Chatterjee, that begins with an email the doctor drafts and redrafts, at least six times, before sending it to the director, Mr Sharma, requesting that he be allowed to take Orphan out for an hour or so.

  Sir, with all due respect, may I suggest, in the spirit of freedom that you have so carefully nurtured in Little House, that Orphan be allowed to choose the route we take on his first day out? Let’s give him a map of the National Capital Region, let’s give him a pen, let Orphan trace a line, a curve, whatever. And that’s the route we shall take him on.

  Three days later, comes the reply:

  Dear Dr Chatterjee, normally I wouldn’t say this to a staffer but you are a student to me, you are learning. So let me tell you that rules in the government are like lines drawn in stone. All children here are in our custody as per a solemn, binding commitment to the honourable court. So, just like everybody else, Orphan has to wait until we plan a field trip for his cohort but I am going to make an exception. I like your innovative idea of letting him choose his route. Such things build individualism, something for which we have so little regard in our culture. In other words, you may start planning. I would like to be there when Orphan chooses his route.

  Dr Chatterjee’s first instinct is to doubt Mr Sharma’s motive behind this acceptance: is he trying to reach out to his powerful, influential father, the VVIP friend of the Chief Minister, who, once he knows that Mr Sharma has been nice to his son, may pull wheels and levers, move cranks and shafts in the government’s machinery to help Mr Sharma move up? From this sinecure at an obscure orphanage to the rarer echelons of the State Secretariat? Maybe yes, maybe no, but so what, Dr Chatterjee tells himself. Mr Sharma has approved his request, cleared the trip, that’s all that matters.

  ‘Sir, thank you so much, I will always be grateful,’ he replies.

  ~

  At exactly 5 p.m. – an hour before he begins to wind down, turning in for the day – when Orphan is at his most alert and agile, he is brought to Mr Sharma’s office and seated on his desk. Mr Sharma, Mrs Chopra, nurses and attendants watching silently, Dr Chatterjee spreads the map of the entire National Capital Region, all its twelve flaps, prises open Orphan’s little fingers, gently wraps them around a pen.

  Twice, the pen slips out; once, it falls to the floor.

  ‘Here, give it to me,’ says Kalyani, and she holds Orphan’s hand, guides him to the exact spot on the map where Little House is.

  ‘This is Little House, this is from where we start,’ Kalyani says, ‘now I am letting go, Orphan, you move the pen.’

  The child’s hand moves.

  From Little House, down the road, past the garbage heap at the entrance, onto Ring Road in a winding line that curves sharply, the pen takes a sprawling arc that cuts across the southern part of the city, becomes straight again for what seems like six kilometres or so, loops around the railway station, zigzags across the forested Ridge, heads for the highway where it meanders towards New City, comes to a stop right at the city’s border, where the highway touches The Mall.

  It’s there that Orphan lets go of the pen.

  ‘Thank you, Orphan,’ says Dr Chatterjee. ‘Quite a long route, the entire thing will take many days, so let Dr Chatterjee choose which section you will take.’

  Everyone cheers.

  The noise makes Orphan cry.

  The gathered crowd tries to make sense of the scrawl Orphan has left on the map.

  ‘Very adventurous,’ says Mr Sharma.

  Mrs Chopra says, ‘It looks like the city’s Metro map, Yellow and Blue lines.’

  A nurse, in charge of laundry, says it reminds her of a hair-ribbon blowing in the wind.

  The transport supervisor says it’s similar to the route taken by two Delhi Transport Corporation buses, Route Nos. 414 and 527.

  ~

  Late that night, the first part of their mission accomplished – the route plotted – and Orphan fast asleep, Kalyani and Dr Chatterjee sit together and look at the line that the child’s pen has drawn.

  ‘Look, sir,’ says Kalyani, ‘it ends very near where I live. We can take him to The Mall.’

  ‘A mall is no place for a baby. His line also touches the railway station, that’s a much better place for him to spend the day,’ says Dr Chatterjee. ‘We will arrive early, get a place on the overbridge from where Orphan can watch the trains, porters, passengers.’

  ‘Yes, weighing machines with coloured spinning dials, blinking lights. We can buy a ticket and board a local train, travel up and down three or four trips, give Orphan his first view from a train window,’ says Kalyani.

  ‘In the afternoon, we will take him to Platforms 12 and 13, from where the Rajdhanis leave, show him their red-and-white coaches, some imported from Germany, with their sealed glass windows. Ticket examiners in black coats.’

  ‘But have you seen, sir, how Orphan’s line, before it travels across the city, takes a break just outside Little House? A short gap. Means there is someone outside Little House he wants to go with? He wants to spend some time at the entrance?’

  ‘Don’t be silly,’ says Dr Chatterjee, ‘you are reading too much into this line.’

  ~

  And so they go on, into the late hours, trying to make sense of this child’s drawing, how and why it curls around the highway before it enters The Mall, why it goes this way and not that, how it shows a steady hand and a uniform pressure that you do not usually see from fingers so small and so young. Both unaware, of course, that Orphan, in that ink scrawl, may have actually foreshadowed the route he will take, not with the kind nurse and the good doctor, but, yes, with someone else when he leaves Little House for the world outside – in search of his home.

  WOMAN

  Henri Bergson

  You may ask me when you wake up, Ma, why did you put all these soft toys in my room, cluttering my bed? I am almost forty, Ma, you may say, I don’t need these to go to sleep, but look carefully, you may very well ask me, where did you get such an amazing variety of toys? Not at all like when I was a kid, when I had only one bear. Brown and shapeless, stuffed with cotton wool that leaked in many places, its whiskers so hard they pricked like needles, its skin painted yellow that ran with each wash until it turned grey, then white.

  But look at these, Ma, you will say, there are giraffes with hats, mice going to school, with bags, lunchboxes, water-bottles. Bears with umbrellas, elephants with scarves. Are all of these for me?

  I will then tell you, yes, there is
a little plan behind these toys.

  I don’t know if it will work but it’s an idea I got reading the book by Henri Bergson I told you about.

  ~

  Henri Bergson. Born in Paris, 1859. Very strong in mathematics as a child, he first works as a schoolteacher, then goes on to teach philosophy in college. He writes many books, even on religion, the appeal of Christianity over Buddhism, but the one I am reading is about what happens inside our heads when we sleep.

  It’s called On Dreams.

  There is a strong link, Bergson says, between what we see, what we touch and what we hear when we are awake and what we see, what we touch and what we hear when we are dreaming – between our self and our dream-self. He says that, when we are awake, ‘we live outside of ourselves’ and it’s only when we sleep, that ‘we retire into ourselves’. So when we close our eyes, right at the moment of falling asleep, the coloured spots and moving forms that we see are the ones that consolidate into the outlines of objects and people we then go on to see in our dreams. Bergson calls this the ‘visual dust’ that fabricates our dreams. This visual dust is fed by memory and sensations. Memories stored deep in our unconscious. And the sensations we feel when we sleep: external sensations like the touch of the pillow, our feet against the sheet, the hard bed; internal sensations like the heart beating inside us, the blood coursing through our veins. All these combine to become the content of dreams.

  ~

  That’s where the idea of using the toys came to me. Not just the toys, my child, look around and you shall see. There is so much more.

  I sprinkle visual dust all around.

  I set up your bedroom before you arrive.

  I buy toys, put them in a line right next to the windowsill, so that you will look at the animals before you fall asleep. I get an air conditioner on rent, only for you, install it in a place so that its draught covers the entire bed. I change the mattress, get one that’s stiff, that stays firm, so that when you lie down, your back doesn’t strain. I get a bedsheet the colour of water, a thin blanket the colour of grass.

  So if Bergson is right and if your hands brush against the toys or the toys are the last thing you see before you close your eyes, maybe you will dream of a forest. With happy animals in it, all brightly coloured. You will dream of a yellow mouse going to school, a giraffe in a hat, a bear with an umbrella. You will find yourself lying down on a bed of soft green grass. In your hair, there will be a cool wind. And because the room is so cold, the forest floor will be covered with snow.

  MAN

  House Guests

  ‘Only ten rupees,’ says Balloon Girl.

  ~

  Red Balloon must have been filled recently since it tugs hard, wants to fly away into the night, so the girl has tied its string around her wrist – looped it over several times – which she now thrusts at him.

  ‘Only one left,’ she says. ‘The last.’

  ‘Come home with me,’ he says, ‘there is food, I will give you a bed to sleep in, I will give you some money, there’s no work that you have to do.’

  His heart’s racing so hard he can hear it. He’s never done something like this before, he is amazed that he has said what he has said.

  Balloon Girl smiles, looks at her mother who looks at him.

  The mother, too, has never before heard anyone say this to her.

  Once, not very long ago, a woman rolls down her car window and says, ‘Why are you and your daughter begging? Why don’t you come and work in my house? Bring your daughter along, I will pay you.’ Before she can reply, however, the lights change, the woman’s car drives away, she never sees her again. Another time, there’s a man in a car who gestures to her to come closer, puts his hand in his pocket to make it seem he’s taking out money to give to her but when she walks up to him, stands right next to his window, his hand darts out and, in full view of everyone, he grabs her breast.

  But this is the first time someone’s telling her, come home with me, I have things to give, none to take. He looks young, he doesn’t look so strong. If he tries to do something funny, she can hit him, there are two of them against the one of him.

  ~

  ‘Whatever you have to give, give us here, we are not going anywhere,’ the mother says, drawing her daughter close to her, Red Balloon half covering her face.

  ‘There’s nothing to fear,’ he says. ‘I will drop you back right here.’

  She doesn’t answer, she walks away. He counts her steps, one to twelve. He watches her talk to her daughter.

  ‘Tell me quickly, I can’t keep waiting,’ he says. ‘I am going for a walk, I will be back in five minutes.’

  ~

  That’s an act he’s putting on. For, he is wary now. A hospital security guard is looking at him. He can’t arouse suspicion, he walks towards the hospital’s main entrance, looking straight ahead, trying hard to appear normal, as if he is a patient or a visitor. He turns around to look at her, makes that turn as casual as he can. Sees she is still talking to the child. What are they discussing? The mother needs the daughter’s advice? Will she call someone? He isn’t sure. These days, everyone has a cellphone, even those who go hungry. Does she have one, too? If she has, won’t that be a problem? He’s barely yards away from the Emergency entrance when he turns again to look. If she doesn’t respond, call out to him, in the next one minute, two minutes, he is going to keep walking, he will walk out of the hospital and never return because he doesn’t want to be stopped, questioned by anyone although he knows that’s unlikely given the crowd of visitors even at so late an hour.

  The next time he turns to look at her, she nods her head.

  Mother and Balloon Girl agree.

  He calls a taxi.

  He opens the rear door for them, slips into the passenger seat in front.

  Apartment Complex, New City, he says.

  Let’s go, says Taxi Driver as he looks at the woman and the child in the rear-view mirror.

  ~

  They stand in the centre of his 800-square-foot bathroom, Mother and Balloon Girl, casting shadows on the white onyx tiles on the floor, holding each other, fearful the walls will close on them and the spotless, smooth floor will move away from underneath their bare feet.

  ‘Nothing to be afraid of, both of you are so dirty,’ he says, knowing that he should put it more politely but aware that he doesn’t need to be polite, there’s no one in the room listening to him except these two.

  ‘I am going to leave you in the bathroom alone, I have clean clothes for you here.’ He points to a brown wicker chair in the corner where he’s put two bathrobes, one for the mother, one for the child.

  Their empty eyes follow his.

  ‘You wear them like this,’ he slips on a bathrobe over his clothes, ties its belt at the waist. It reaches just below his knees, it will cover her ankles. ‘It’s like a towel,’ he says, ‘it will soak all the water, dry you up.’

  His movements are awkward, he hasn’t done anything like this before.

  Neither mother nor child says a word.

  ‘Take this,’ he says.

  He hands Mother and Balloon Girl a fresh soap each, pink for the girl, blue for the mother (Shea Soap, Rs 175 each). Each gets a Bath Lily (Rs 200).

  ‘Use this to scrub the dirt off,’ he says. ‘But you need to wet it with water first.’ He shows them how, switches on the fan in the bathroom, turns it towards the bathtub.

  ‘Sit in there, here are two buckets, I will mix the water for you, hot and cold,’ he says.

  Two buckets full.

  ‘I am right here’ – he leaves the bathroom, closes the door behind him –‘you take your time, let me know if you need anything.’

  ~

  It’s a little after one in the morning, most lights in Apartment Complex are out. He pours himself a drink, drops an ice-cube into it, hears it crack, hears the water splash in the bathroom, hears Balloon Girl and Mother talk, laugh, the shower curtain rustle. He hears the tap run.

  ‘Be
careful,’ he calls out, ‘keep checking the water otherwise you may burn yourself.’

  He isn’t sure if they know blue is cold, red is hot.

  He doesn’t want an accident.

  So far things have progressed smoothly: he brings them here by taxi, Red Balloon between them, touching the taxi’s roof. Sit on the floor, he whispers to them when they are about to enter Apartment Complex, to avoid the closed-circuit TV cameras at the entrance. Taxi Driver couldn’t care less, he’s not even looking. In case Security Guard at the entrance to his building stops, asks him, sir, who are these two, he knows what to say: they are my new maids, they were stranded since they missed the last Metro and I had to go and pick them up.

  But when they walk in, Security Guard isn’t there.

  He tips Taxi Driver extra for not speaking throughout the ride, for not asking any questions.

  ~

  Mother and Balloon Girl step out of the bathroom, dripping, both in bathrobes half-wrapped, half-open, their old clothes in a soiled heap on the floor. He has kept food for them on the table.

  Warm bread with butter and jam already spread, for Balloon Girl. Boiled egg. Breakfast at night. For the mother, there’s fried rice and chicken leftovers from the meal he ordered in from the Chinese restaurant at The Leela the previous day.

  They don’t want to sit at the table. They eat, sitting on the floor, their bathrobes wet against the wall. He leaves the room, lets them eat in private.

  He returns to pour them water in glasses, chilled. He shows them the guest room where they can sleep where the AC has been on the entire evening, the room cold like in winter.

  ~

  Balloon Girl is fast asleep. Mother, too. The girl has tied Red Balloon to the armrest of a chair in the room, some of its gas has leaked away, it hovers above her face, above her hair, black, cropped close. He doesn’t want them to know where he lives, he has to drop them off before sunrise but he will let them sleep for a while because he likes to watch them sleeping.