by Meghna Pant
I look at Mary’s mother.
She takes the glass from my hand and rests it in hers.
Then she raises her eyes, weighed down and weary by illness. ‘Now that you’re here I hope you can talk some sense into Mary. I have broken my back so my daughters can study in English-medium colleges and marry some nice railway clerk, but all Mary wants to do is play basketball. I don’t like it when she plays against you, our mai-baap. And our chawl people talk about how she shows her legs while playing, as if we live in America. The boys are all scared of her. Who will marry her with this reputation?’
Mary interrupts her mother, something I have not seen her do before. ‘Aai, if we win the National match each of us will get a government job. I will have a career, status and a regular salary. You will not have to worry about what people say. All The Agnis need is to win two more games.’
Fatima turns to Sara and me, and says, ‘So much depends on these next two matches. My Aai and Baba also want me to leave basketball and get married. But if we win state and national matches, I get a little money. Then wedding plans cancel!’
‘You girls are dreaming. If we win next game and enter National, where is the money to go to Delhi for National tournament? India Basketball Association is sponsoring only the boys’ team,’ Rahima chimes in.
‘Money, no money, we have to win the State match, we have to be the best girls’ team in Maharashtra,’ Fatima says, holding her head high.
Mary speaks again and I’m surprised at the fierceness in her voice. ‘If we enter the Nationals, I will do anything to go to Delhi. Anything.’
I look down at the cracked cement floor of Mary’s kholi. These girls’ unspoken stories—told by their torn shirts, their thin bodies—gather like screams around me. I feel like I’m shrinking under the weight of their ambition, their rebellion by making basketball—which I treat as a hobby, a joke—a career. It holds me by the scruff of my neck. There is no air in this windowless room.
‘I have to go,’ I say, and before anyone can stop me, I leave the kholi.
I hear Sara throw a confused apology to the girls, but she follows me as I quickly find my way back to our waiting car.
‘What is wrong with you?’ Sara shouts when I stop, waiting for Lalit to reverse the car.
‘I don’t want to talk about it,’ I say with finality.
‘You didn’t have to be so rude. It isn’t their fault that they’re poor,’ Sara says.
‘It wasn’t that,’ I reply, suddenly too exhausted to explain myself.
Sara sees this, and says softly, ‘This place, these girls, really make you question what you believe in, don’t they?’
I avoid looking at her.
‘We could have at least finished the tea,’ she adds.
~
As I am opening the door of the car Sara exclaims, ‘Look. A bird. I think she’s injured.’
I look where she’s pointing and see a sparrow lying on its side, its eyes open but vacant, as if it has lost all hope.
Sara bends to pick it up. ‘Maybe one of the dogs attacked it.’
‘Don’t touch it or the other sparrows will kill it,’ I warn.
But Sara is in no mood to listen to me any more. She empties an Aldo shoebox lying in the car and puts the sparrow inside it. The sparrow lies absolutely still as Sara softly coos to it.
When we reach home Sara asks me what to do with the sparrow. ‘Should we call a vet?’
I look inside the shoebox where the sparrow has shat little yellow-grey droppings.
‘Why do you try to rescue everyone and then expect me to bail you out?’ I ask her. She doesn’t reply so I add, ‘It’s the heat. Give the sparrow some water and it’ll be fine.’
Sara sets down the box carefully on the couch and goes into the kitchen. She starts boiling water, as she’s seen Mary do.
‘It’s a bird, Sara, you can give it normal tap water,’ I tell her.
‘The bird is not an “it” but a she,’ Sara says, and continues boiling the water.
‘By the time the water cools, the sparrow will die of dehydration.’
I fill some tap water in a small steel bowl and take out the dropper from Papa’s bottle of eye drops. I make Sara open the sparrow’s beak while I drip some water into her mouth. The sparrow blinks hard for a minute and then jumps to her feet.
Sara claps with excitement.
The sparrow looks curiously around the living room, blinking less furiously now. Before we realize it, she spreads her wings and starts flying around the room.
‘Turn off the fan before she is hurt by the blades,’ I shout to Sara, who is next to the switchboard.
I open the French windows and watch as the sparrow flutters furiously about, banging against the false ceiling, the embroidered curtains and the chandelier.
‘When there is a way out, why is this bird not seeing it?’ I say.
I run over to where the sparrow is and try to catch her.
‘Don’t be so rough,’ Sara cries, when the sparrow, driven by my aggression, finds the way to an open window and flies out.
I look at Sara; once again she’s brought home a problem that I’ve had to solve.
~
During the next few days I play the cordial host and go through the standard protocol of offering Sara a few crumbs from my life, drinks and dinners with friends, movies. But she’s not interested. She has a plan for The Agnis and asks me if I want to join her.
‘I wish I could,’ I decline, as if a great force is holding me back.
Yet, when she’s gone to visit The Agnis, I imagine what she’s doing with them and picture myself next to her. Something goes missing from the things I’m used to enjoying; they leave me dissatisfied, empty, as though I’ve left something behind.
I go for my weekly potli massage. During the massage, I stare at my masseuse, whose presence I’ve never acknowledged before. I feel the urge to know more about her: why she’s here, where she’s from and who she’s doing all this work for. She shifts uncomfortably. I ask her name and she murmurs, ‘You seem tense today.’
I come out of the parlour feeling knotted, dirty.
The next day, when Mary comes home (quieter after I stormed out of her house), I realize that although I see her every day—even more than I see my own father, who’s usually travelling or with his other family—I know almost nothing about her. I’ve treated her as though she’s invisible. I lock myself inside my room and clean my cupboard, for the very first time.
~
The day comes for Sara to leave and I know that with her departure the train of my guilt will leave the station. Early that morning I hear the bell ring. Thinking it is Mary coming for duty, I open the door without looking through the peephole. The entire team of Agnis, twelve girls, are standing outside my front door. Fatima is holding a cake on which is written in clumsy white icing: ‘We Will Miss You.’
Their mouths drop on seeing me; they were expecting Sara to open the door.
‘How did the watchman let you all in?’ I ask.
‘I told him to,’ Sara says, coming up behind me. The girls’ faces bloom like flowers. Sara invites them in but they refuse, throwing cautious glances at me.
‘How did you find an oven?’ I ask pointlessly, seeing that the cake is lumpy and unpretentious, the kind that has bits of forgotten eggshells in it, the kind that Sara will like.
The girls look at each other and Fatima mumbles, ‘We request my memsahib for permission to use her oven.’
I know the memsahib whose house Fatima works in, the eighteenth floor Mrs Mehra who has made a nuisance of herself by adopting stray dogs, many of which have bitten young children in the building. The girls chose wisely.
‘You bake?’ I ask, knowing such a concept is alien to them.
‘We learnt because Sara Didi say she likes cake,’ Mary says, her eyes lingering on Sara. I notice she calls Sara an elder sister now instead of memsahib.
‘Well then, enjoy yourselves,’ I say, and hear my
voice dripping with a kind of excessive sweetness that masks nothing.
I go into my room, ignoring their flat-toned requests for me to stay. I stare out of my window, standing against its humid breath, as their voices gather around me. I hear them thank Sara for her help and this seems to go on for an eternity. There’s a bit of clapping as I imagine the cake being cut. Some of them declare they have an Internet café in their slum from which they’ll regularly email Sara. Sara says she’ll visit them again, maybe next year. They exchange emotional goodbyes and promises to keep in touch. The door shuts and there is silence. I sit on my bed, exhausted.
There’s a knock on my door and Sara enters, carrying a slice of cake on a ceramic plate.
‘I got you a piece,’ she says. ‘Try it, it’s delicious.’
‘No thanks, I’m watching my weight,’ I reply, turning the pages of Vogue, pretending to read it.
She sets the plate down on my dresser and from the corner of my eye I see her back reflected in the mirror, taut and bony. For a minute neither of us says anything.
‘Payal,’ she says in a small voice. ‘I know there are many things you don’t want to talk about but I can’t leave without saying something important.’ She clears her throat and adds, ‘I want to make it clear that I didn’t come to India for The Agnis or my coursework. I came for you, hoping we could get to know each other better.’
If I acknowledge the emotions in Sara’s words it will give our forced relationship as step-sisters validity.
I don’t look up from the page advertising Cartier’s latest engagement rings.
Sara stares at me for a long time, searching. Finally, she sighs and says, ‘There’s something else I want to tell you. I’ve been blogging about The Agnis, putting up photos of them, their homes, their practice ground. The blog is getting an amazing response, sometimes a hundred hits a day. My professors want me to write my thesis on this.’
‘Good for your credits but how does that help these girls?’
‘Well,’ she says and pauses. She steps away from the dresser and sits down on my bed. ‘Last week I bought each girl a pair of sneakers. Nice Nike ones, like yours. It was the day before their big match and they won.’
There is no reason for me to pretend to study Vogue, so I look at Sara and ask, ‘I know they won but how did you get the money to buy the sneakers?’
‘A professor from my university arranged a sponsor,’ she says, with a self-satisfied grin.
‘That’s very … ummm … kind, I guess, of you. But what exactly do you have planned now that they’ve reached the National level, thanks or no thanks to your shoes? The match is in three days. How will they get to Delhi?’
Sara runs her hand through her blonde hair, which has become a shade lighter in the sun and says, ‘I don’t know.’
‘See, Sara. This is what I keep telling you not to do. Try to relate to things that you shouldn’t and leave the job half-done. By helping these slum girls you’ve sold them false hope and now you can’t follow through.’
Sara doesn’t honour me with hurt. She looks me straight in the eye and says, ‘Payal, I may not be able to come back to India for years. But you’re here. You can help them.’
I snort dramatically and say, ‘Sara, you’re asking me to finish the job you started?’ She doesn’t bother with a denial so I continue, ‘Why don’t you understand that things are not so easily done in India? Even if I want to help them, I can’t. My coach will find out; the women’s basketball world is very small here. I’ll get expelled from my team. Plus, believe it or not, the girls are too proud to take my help or money.’
‘Is there no other way?’
‘Can you think of another way?’ I press.
Her stumped expression tells me she can’t. She admits defeat when she says, ‘I have to leave for the airport in thirty minutes.’
I don’t have the capacity for any more of Sara’s hints, so I say, ‘I can’t come to the airport to drop you, but why don’t you finish packing and I’ll see you outside in a bit.’
When I open my bedroom door to let Sara out, I hear Mary washing dishes in the kitchen. She should be practising for the big game, I think, before a little voice quips: what would be the point of that? I shut the door behind me.
I look at the garnet glass frame holding my mother’s photo, taken long before leukemia burnt the skin and bones off her, a time five years ago when we could pass off as sisters. Her face shines in the sunlight. Looking at her this way, with life caressing her hopeful eyes, her endless smile never fails to fill me with grief. Yet, when I burst into tears, I know I’m not crying for her. The morning falls around me like ash.
I hear her voice, my mother’s voice, and I am happy for it gives me a break from my own.
She tells me to believe.
I reply, I’ve never believed in anyone but you.
Then feel, she says.
I tell her, I feel nothing but anger since you left.
Believe, feel.
Then she’s gone, again. I don’t search for her this time. I think. And somewhere between her quiet place and mine, a new emotion finds its way and I think it may be possible for me to love again.
~
I fill my jeans pockets with fifty thousand rupees, an amount that will cover return train tickets from Mumbai to Delhi for twelve girls, along with two–three days of lodging expenses. I hand the jeans to Mary and tell her that I’m going to drop Sara to the airport, that she should wash my jeans before seeing herself out of the house. Then I take Sara’s hand in mine, as Lalit picks up her suitcase, and bid a cheerful adieu to Mary.
When I’m back home, three hours later, my jeans are hanging on the clothesline and the fifty thousand rupees are no longer there.
HAPPY BIRTHDAY!
Nadia didn’t mean to stare at her breasts, but it was difficult not to when they were exposed like that, between the plunging neckline of her gold-amber dress. Dolly was known for her clothes as much as her parties, one of which Nadia and Danesh were attending today. Gold was the theme of this party.
Nadia probably stared too long because Dolly’s eyes were looking at her, sharp but not surprised, chillingly polite from below the gold sparkle lacing her thin pencilled eyebrows.
Dolly turned to Danesh. Air-kiss. Raspberry lips.
‘Welcome to my home,’ she said with a sweep of her arms, smugness and approval lighting her diamondshaped face, her movements smooth despite their latent keenness. ‘Danny, you’re looking dapper as always.’
Danesh grinned in acceptance, as if receiving compliments was a way of life for him. It was a way of life for him, Nadia thought ruefully, with his ineffable charm glossing over the shrewdness that had made him the CEO of GluMart at forty-two. None of his complaints over the past ten days about how a man, any respectable man, could be seen wearing gold, showed on him now, as he stood tall and proud in a gold-tinged suit Nadia had had custom-made for him.
‘Shoes over there,’ Dolly pointed, her wrists thin and clever hands unwavering. Nadia obediently bent down to remove her shoes, but Danesh hesitated as if actually considering not doing it. Nadia was mortified. Dolly was not someone who took ‘no’ for an answer. She saw as Dolly tilted her face sideways at Danesh, and noted with surprise that the hostess had no adornments—no earrings, no necklace—nothing except a green-and-beige striped hairband at the base of her thick springy black hair, which she’d pulled back into an elegant coiffure.
Under Dolly’s glare, Danesh leaned one hand against the wall and with his free hand began untying his cream lace-up shoes. Nadia groaned quietly; she had told him to wear slip-ons so he could remove them easily, and as usual he had dismissed her. Now Dolly and she stood looking at each other, Nadia finding no words with which to fill the silence. She had met Dolly only at parties like these, and exchanged nothing more than pleasantries. She wondered if she should tell Dolly that it was her birthday today and that she’d made no other plans, just so that she could be here.
But th
ere’d been no question of missing Dolly’s party; Dolly’s husband Makhija and Danesh were due to sign a partnership in the coming week that would make GluMart the exclusive adhesive supplier to Makhija’s paper company. No, Nadia decided, it was Danesh who should tell Dolly and the other guests that it was her birthday.
But did he even care? This morning, Danesh had given her a three-carat diamond solitaire—an impersonal pendant she guessed his secretary had bought from the jewellery store below their office—and a card—not a crude or witty card, but the sort of card you give an acquaintance whose taste you cannot guess, with a drawing of a small bouquet of daisies tied with a thin red ribbon whose tail spelled out the words, ‘Happy Birthday’. This had marked Nadia’s birthday celebrations.
Danesh finished taking off his shoes, and Dolly promptly turned around, leading them to the living room, where the party was in full swing. Nadia stared at the back of Dolly’s head, admiring her hairstyle, and as she fretted that she could never make her hair look like that, Dolly’s hairband moved. From behind the thick of her coiffure emerged two lifeless eyes and out darted a tail. Nadia gasped, stopping. She grabbed Danesh’s arm with both her hands.
‘Her ha-hair … it’s moving—’
Danesh looked from Nadia to the moving hairband and said coolly, ‘Nice chameleon you have there, Dolly.’
Dolly turned around, almost purring, and lifted a hand to run along the chameleon’s long green-beige body, ‘I knew you’d like it, Danny.’
Nadia held Danesh’s arm tighter, as he turned to her and said, ‘Animatronics.’
Dolly and he looked at each other, exchanged a small smile.
Then Danesh stepped in line with Dolly, and Nadia had to let go of his arm.
~
Blood rushed back to her legs and she walked faster to catch up with the duo, even as the chameleon’s head vanished back into the coiffure, once again becoming a hairband.
They entered the living room that was bursting with energy and splendour, a state in which all its days seemed to pass. It possessed a sense of expectation so palpable that Nadia felt late. She had only ever seen it like this—low lighting, candles on the mantelpiece, Swarovski-laden golden sheers, gooseneck lamps, authentic Husain paintings, a Chinese rock garden opening into the terrace.
