Amal and Gayan smiled at these admonishments. But they played the game.
Malini’s thoughts were all to do with a strategy for buying food. Ten thousand rupees would feed them for a month. But unless she was clever, she would get nothing; the money would be taken from her, and she would be confined by the village chief.
‘Nanda, did peddlers ever come to your orphanage?’
‘Many times,’ said Nanda. ‘They had cloth for sale and a hundred things – spices, rice, ornaments, even toys. They will never come again.’
‘No, Nanda, they won’t. But the track that leads to the orphanage must join up with a road that the peddlers use. Let’s find that road.’
When Malini found the road it was not much better than the track that led to it, but that was what she’d expected. The peddlers she had in mind plied their trade in small villages and travelled in bullock carts. They were the last of the old-fashioned peddlers. The more modern peddlers got about in four-wheel drives, or trucks, and only visited the larger villages. The old-fashioned bullock-cart peddlers used to come to Malini’s town when she was a small girl. She remembered the excitement of those days, the peddler, and sometimes his family, standing on the cart as they displayed lengths of cloth, calling out the prices in song-form:
‘Ladies, ladies, come to me,
Ladies, ladies, come and see,
A few rupees, a few rupees,
Silk and cotton, Tamil ladies,
Silk and cotton, buy from me!’
But would such a peddler come this way today, or even tomorrow?
Malini left Nanda and the children hidden in the forest while she waited near the roadside. Banni, of course, would not sit with the other children. She said to Malini, ‘Tell them not to come close to me. Tell them not to speak to me. They are beggars.’
Malini sighed. ‘We are all beggars.’
The traffic on the road was sparse. Pools of water lay shining in the dips and depressions. In the tree under which Malini was sheltering from the sun, a flock of bulbuls squabbled over seed pods. Whenever a motorcycle drove by, the bulbuls rose into the air, only to return to their squabbling when the vehicle had passed. The men on the motorcycles were not soldiers, just teenage boys going from one village to another. Still, Malini hid each time she heard a motorcycle. In Sri Lanka, a Tamil girl would never go wandering off by herself, never stand alone on a remote roadside. She would be thought badly brought up, or mad.
No peddlers came down the road on that first afternoon, nor the following day. While Malini watched at the roadside, Nanda made a shelter that kept the children dry when it rained. She found fresh water, a few wood apples and some fruit like a plum, but they had been pecked at by birds and were beginning to rot.
After dark, the boys huddled together. Nanda would not permit herself to close her eyes until Amal and Gayan were asleep. Banni slept beside Malini, and then only after Malini had told her a story about a brave, strong girl whose name was also Banni, but who possessed amazing powers. ‘Famous Banni was so strong she could pull up trees by the roots and throw them at her enemies. Her strength came from a special drink that tasted like Pepsi. And how fast Famous Banni could run! Like the wind on the sea! And Famous Banni had a bow and arrow more wonderful than anything in the world. She could fire an arrow from one side of Sri Lanka to the other.
All the birds of the air obeyed Famous Banni. She said, Bring me mangoes! Bring me coconuts! The birds would whoosh away and come back with one hundred coconuts and two hundred mangoes.’
Banni said, ‘A bird cannot carry a coconut or a mango.’
‘These were big birds. Serpent eagles. Now, the thing about Famous Banni that made everyone love her was that she would not eat a single piece of mango or a single piece of coconut until all her friends had eaten first.’
‘What friends?’ said Banni.
‘She had many friends. Some Sinhalese, some Tamil, some Muslim, some Christian. Even some Jewish friends, like Mr Fonseka from our town. They all had to eat before Banni would take a single mouthful.’
Banni said, ‘I know what you’re doing.’
‘Do you?’
‘It won’t work,’ said Banni, and she curled up and fell asleep.
On the afternoon of the third day, when Malini had almost given up hope, a peddler appeared on the road. She saw the bullock wagon from a long way off and she heard the song of the peddler.
‘Ho! It’s the snail-man who carries his house on his back!
Ho! It’s the snail-man who carries a shop on his back!
Ho! So many wares – who can count every one?
Ho! So many wares – who will buy every one?’
Malini stood in the middle of the road with her hand held high. She said, ‘Ora nimidam, one moment!’
And the peddler, without missing a beat, immediately changed his song.
‘Ho! Who says to the snail-man stop?
The snail-man and his shop!
Ho! A girl of the woods says snail-man stop!
The snail-man and his shop!
A strange day for the snail-man,
With his shop and his house on his back!
A strange day for me, my friends, with my shop and my house on my back!’
The peddler’s wagon was brightly painted with images of many gods and goddesses, but foremost was Shiva on the back of a tiger with a bow and arrow. Ganesha, the Elephant God, sat on his throne with his four arms raised, a hatchet in one hand, a lotus flower in another, in the third a dish of sweets, and in the fourth a radiant gem. Buddha was shown, too, with earlobes hanging down lower than his chin. Malini knew it was not unusual for peddlers to decorate their carts with both Buddhist and Hindu images – everyone a peddler met was a potential customer, after all, whatever their religion.
The bullock that drew the cart was decorated, too, with necklaces of marigolds draped around his neck.
The peddler brought his cart to a halt and smiled down at Malini. He was an old man, although not as old as the sadhu, and his mouth was full of gold teeth.
‘Young lady,’ he said, ‘the snail-man welcomes you to the world. For indeed the world is my garden. I have travelled to every land on earth, yes, even to the land of mist and snow at the bottom of our round planet. Or did I dream it?’
Malini said, ‘Sir, I ask if you have rice to sell, and other food? I have money.’
The peddler raised both hands to the sky. ‘Do you hear that, Lord Shiva? Lord Buddha, do you hear? The young lady of the forest has money for rice. But do I have rice for money? That is what she wants to know. Ho! I have cloth for a sari, braids for the hair of a Tamil lady, bracelets of gold for a girl’s slim wrist, pots and pans, sandals and shawls. But do I have rice for rupees, that is the question the forest girl asks me!’
‘Do you, sir? Do you have rice?’
The peddler raised his head and sang.
‘The forest girl stands in my way!
The forest girl – what does she say?
The forest girl asks for rice!
The forest girl asks my price!’
Then he said, ‘A bushel or a peck, forest girl?’
‘A peck.’
‘Why not a bushel?’ said the peddler. ‘There are five of you.’
Malini gasped. How could the peddler possibly know of the children hidden out of sight?
‘Fi-five?’ stuttered Malini.
‘Fi-five,’ said the peddler, and he held up five fingers.
Malini glanced behind her. But the children were still concealed in the bushes. She saw nothing.
‘Why do you say five, sir?’ she said.
‘Why? Because I have learned to count in my many years, forest girl. Your eyes and eight others.’
Malini looked back at the forest. Now, she could just make out the hint of a face among the foliage.
‘Come out!’ she called. ‘All of you – come out!’
Leaves rustled, and first Nanda then the two boys and finally Banni stepped out of the fores
t, all looking embarrassed.
‘Your eyes are sharp, sir,’ said Malini.
‘My eyes are sharp,’ said the peddler, ‘and my wits are sharper, forest girl. You are running from the war?’
‘From the war, sir, yes. This one is my sister, Banni. This one is Nanda. This is Amal and Gayan. I am Malini, sir.’
‘And you have jumped from the forest to buy rice from the snail-man?’
‘We have, sir. We can pay.’
‘A bushel or a peck, forest girl?’
‘How many rupees for a peck, sir?’
The peddler hummed a tune and gazed up at the sky, as if he were calculating the price.
‘Let us say, one hundred and fifty rupees.’
‘Yes, we can pay one hundred and fifty rupees, sir. May I ask, do you have fruit for sale? Do you have—’
The peddler cut Malini off. ‘If it is to be found in the round world, forest girl, the snail-man has it among his wares. How many rupees can you afford to part with?’
As soon as Malini was placed in the position of spending a limited sum of money, she all at once turned into her mother. In Malini’s town, her mother was famed as a woman who knew how to strike a bargain. With a mixture of charm and stubbornness, she squeezed every morsel of value out of a rupee. Malini’s father – who always paid what a shopkeeper asked without a qualm – used to laugh and say, ‘My dear, why not ask the man to pay you to take his goods?’ Malini had always felt embarrassed to be at her mother’s side while she haggled, but she felt no embarrassment when she bargained with the snail-man.
Over the space of an hour, Malini purchased two pecks of rice, potatoes, a packet of salt, dried chilli, six goose eggs, bananas, navel oranges, red apples, mangoes, rhubarb, honey, brown onions, roasted pepper, ginger pods, cumin seeds, cabbage, red pumpkin, a peck of dried lentils, ghee, a large bottle of Pepsi, biscuits, a tin of milk powder, eggplants, two deep saucepans, matches, a packet of plastic spoons, a big block of soap, two towels, a plastic hairbrush, a jar of antiseptic powder, five plastic bowls, and two sturdy carry-all bags with red, white and blue stripes. But Malini also saw the necessity of clothing Amal and Gayan in something other than rags. As it happened, the peddler had pyjamas for small boys for sale, and Malini could see that they would serve as day-wear in the heat. They were anything but traditional – bright yellow and orange, and printed all over with images of Bart Simpson on a skateboard – but they would do nicely. They were cheap enough to start with (they came from Bangladesh, and were made of the most inexpensive cotton) but not quite cheap enough for Malini.
She said, ‘Sir, do you say three hundred and thirty rupees for the two, or for one pair?’
The peddler said, ‘Forest girl, a demon lives in you. For one pair, three hundred and thirty rupees. Or do you wish all of my children to go hungry for a year? I have sixteen children, forest girl. Maybe more, I lose count. If I come back home with an empty purse, they will weep at my feet!’
‘Sir, my offer is five hundred rupees for two pairs. I can afford no more.’
‘Ai, ai! Why do I hitch my old bullock to this cart and travel all over our land of Sri Lanka? Why do I not stay at home and starve to death in comfort, myself, my honoured wife, my eighteen children! Are you mad, forest girl? Six hundred and fifty rupees. This price will not change until the sun turns to ghee and fills a bowl on my table!’
‘Five hundred and fifty, sir. You can see the state of these children. Is there a heart in your body? I hope so, sir.’
‘Six hundred, that I may find a quiet place where I can cut my own throat. Not one rupee less.’
‘Five hundred and seventy,’ said Malini.
‘Ai ai! Nee ennai yemathikitu, you’re cheating me! Take them! Leave me to my misery.’
But the peddler’s trial was not yet over, for Malini next turned her attention to some clothing for Nanda. Among the peddler’s strange assortment of clothes were a range of T-shirts emblazoned with the names and faces of Western pop stars no longer in their first flush of fame. The peddler must have acquired them at a discount from China or Bangladesh. Nanda chose a Bon Jovi T-shirt that came down to her knees, and also a pair of khaki shorts with six sets of pockets. And for Banni, to give her a change from her blouse, Malini chose a green shirt with short sleeves. By the time the peddler had gone on his way, Malini had spent five and a half thousand of the ten thousand rupees. She knew the prices of everything after years of shopping with her mother, and she felt quite proud of the bargain she had struck. Her mother could have done no better.
Now the five of them gathered their purchases together and retreated deep into the forest to prepare a meal. They found a place by a stream, well away from any paths. Before Malini set to work building a fire, she handed everyone an apple and passed around the Pepsi. Banni had to set aside her distaste for drinking from the same bottle as Nanda and the boys, but that took about two seconds.
Malini suggested to Nanda that she might like to bathe the boys in the stream. ‘And yourself, if you wish,’ she added tactfully. ‘I must bathe, too, and Banni.’
Banni was put to work gathering wood for the fire, and she accepted the task without complaint. She had just seen Malini exercising the authority of a mother, and she seemed impressed.
Malini would usually bathe her arms up to the elbows, wash her face and brush her hair before preparing a meal – such was the Tamil custom, at least in her mother’s kitchen. Then she would ornament her forehead with a fresh red pottu – a small dot, perfectly round, that symbolised the spiritual third eye of her faith. But this evening, she settled for scrubbing her hands in the stream with sand and tying her long hair at the back of her head with a strip of supple acacia bark.
As Malini busied herself preparing the meal, she began to hum a song. She could just glimpse Amal shrieking with delight in the stream as Nanda lathered his hair with the block of soap; Gayan, far shyer than Amal, washed himself. Banni, meanwhile, was building a circle of stones for the fire. Malini paused, and smiled. Happiness had come to life in her heart. Somehow, a family had been assembled here in this wild place, and there was food enough for all. The pain of separation from her mother and father was easier to bear just for the moment. She thought, Whatever is to come, however bad, let me remember this time.
While the rice was cooking in the saucepan, Malini peeled a brown onion, cut it fine, and fried it lightly in ghee with slices of red pumpkin, potato and dried chilli. When the rice was cooked, she added salt and pepper then buried small pieces of mango in the rice to soften the fruit. Next she made an omelette with two of the goose eggs and the milk powder, cut it up and mixed it with the rice and mango. She blended in the red pumpkin, onion and potato, and left it to build in flavour while she softened some stalks of rhubarb to mix with banana slices and honey. When Amal and Gayan had finished bathing in the stream, they sat cross-legged around the fire in their Bart Simpson pyjamas and watched Malini. Nanda, who had bathed herself in private, joined them a few minutes later. Malini gave Banni the task of serving a heaped bowl of the main course to Amal and Gayan, then to Nanda.
Banni said, ‘What, am I a servant now?’
Malini answered, ‘Have you forgotten who paid for this food?’
When Banni, now a little ashamed, had finished serving, Malini blessed Lord Shiva and invited Nanda to bless Lord Buddha. Then they ate.
And what a feast. One of the boys, Amal, began to weep even as he was filling his mouth from his bowl.
Nanda asked him, ‘But Amal, where do these tears come from?’
Amal said, ‘It is too nice, Mama!’
Then the rhubarb, bananas and honey.
The boys crooned with pleasure.
Another sip of Pepsi.
And the welcome prospect of breakfast awaiting them all when they awoke in the morning.
Malini checked the phone to see if there was a signal before she closed her eyes. No signal, and next to no battery. The blessing it would have been to have said just a few words to h
er father! Or even to her grandfather, except that there was no mobile coverage in his village; no telephones at all. Malini thought, I will be grateful for the blessings I have. Oh, but Appa, how I miss you! And you, too, Amma. Both of you.
Malini and Banni luxuriated in the silky flow of the river’s current. The sand was fine enough to scour their skin and hair, mixed with the lather of the soap. Though raised in the Hindu faith, they did not always observe the strict rituals of bathing. In their house, their father had built a modern bathroom with a bathtub and a shower where Malini and Banni washed each morning. But every week, they bathed at least once in the river, according to customs that had endured for two thousand years.
One of those customs was to bathe upstream from any other bathers who were not Hindu. Nanda, a Buddhist, had also been taught to bathe upstream from non-Buddhists, according to the customs of her faith. So in the morning, down at the river, there had been a problem: strictly speaking the river could not be shared. The single block of soap and the towels could not be shared by either. Malini knew that using the soap, the towels and the stream itself would all be considered unacceptable, but remembered the words of her father, who said to her one morning when a family of Indian gypsies crossed the bathing stream, thus polluting it, according to the more pious Tamils of the town, ‘So the gypsies are not human beings, then? Malini my dear, our faith is a doorway to the universe, not a prison.’
When the sisters had dried themselves and dressed, Banni sat on a rock while Malini brushed her hair and told her more of the story of Famous Banni, who happened to be the most beautiful person on earth.
Malini Page 5
