Can You Hear the Nightbird Call?

by Anita Rau Badami

  Bibi-ji leaned forward and held Nimmo’s worn hands in her own soft ones. “I am the one who came looking for you, you did not come to me. But I see my sister when I look at you. I am sure. I am forty-five years old. I have no children of my own. I have no family other than my husband. I have lived in guilt for twenty years. I left the village. I did not help my sister. Now I am sure. This is right.”

  Nimmo looked at Bibi-ji’s face and gave up. She would be this woman’s niece. She nodded and pressed Bibi-ji’s hands in return. “Tell me more about my mother,” she said. “You knew her longer than I did. Tell me about my grandmother and my brothers. Tell me all that you can about me.”

  “No, I have talked enough for today,” said Bibi-ji. “You tell me about your life now. You have children, you said in your letter?”

  “Yes, two boys,” Nimmo said, exhausted by the tide of memory and emotion that had flooded so unexpectedly through her small home. “And this one is coming soon.” She touched her belly.

  Bibi-ji felt a sharp jealousy knife through her. “Where are your boys?” she asked.

  “School,” Nimmo said and looked at the time. She had missed Indira Gandhi’s speech. No matter. “They should be back soon. The younger one comes home early some days, but today his older brother will be bringing him home. I was supposed to go out …”

  Bibi-ji heaved herself to her feet in dismay. “Oh! Because of me … What must you think, I just land up like this … Oh!”

  “No, no, it is only a speech by Indira Gandhi. Nothing so important. Sit. Please sit.”

  “But I too must go. I am staying with friends in Defence Colony. You know that area?”

  Nimmo nodded. Yes, she knew of the area, it was very posh. She had passed it on the bus once or twice and wondered at the cars lined up on the street outside, the servants, the well-dressed people emerging from the houses.

  “When did you say the children were coming home? I brought presents for them.”

  “In a few minutes. They would like to meet their aunty-ji, I am sure.” Nimmo smiled with pleasure at the sound of that. A relative from her side at last.

  “Great-aunty,” Bibi-ji corrected.

  As Nimmo had predicted, the door soon flew open and Jasbeer entered, impetuous as ever. “I’m hungry, Mummy,” he called. “What is there to eat?” He stopped when he saw the visitor and suddenly became shy. He stood on one foot and stared. They had never had such a finely dressed person in their home. Not even his father’s oldest sister, Manpreet, who was richer than the rest of them, had such shiny clothes.

  “This is Jasbeer, my older boy,” Nimmo said. “And … Jassu, where is your brother?”

  Jasbeer looked down at his feet and muttered, “I don’t know.”

  “What do you mean you don’t know? You were supposed to bring him home from school.”

  Jasbeer shrugged. “He wasn’t there.”

  Nimmo caught his face in her hand and twisted it up so that he was forced to look at her. “What do you mean he wasn’t there?” she demanded, her voice rising. She forgot Bibi-ji sitting there, forgot the hours that had drifted by. “What do you mean? Did you even look for him? You wretched boy! Tell me, tell me the truth!”

  Jasbeer burst into tears. “I was only teasing him, I was hiding and then when I came out he had gone somewhere. I didn’t mean to …”

  The door banged again, and Pappu entered crying dramatically. “Mummy, Jassu didn’t wait for me. I came with Shaukat and her big brother.” He caught sight of his older brother and increased his bawling, rubbing his eyes hard with plump fists.

  “Thank God!” Nimmo exclaimed. She pushed Jasbeer away from her with a fierce whisper: “I’ll deal with you later.” And held out her arms to Pappu. “Come here, putthar, don’t cry now. See who is here? A new aunty-ji.” She turned to Bibi-ji. “I am sorry for all this confusion. Really, this older child of mine, God only knows what is wrong with him these days!”

  “Never mind, Ooper-Wallah be praised that they are both okay,” Bibi-ji said. She turned to Jasbeer, who was kicking angrily at the door frame. Vividly aware of his inarticulate hurt, she said, “It’s okay, putthar, come here and let me see your face. Do you know who I am? No? I am your mother’s aunt, like your grandmother almost.” She sat down again. “Come Jasbeer, don’t you want to tell me about your school? And your friends?”

  “And my friends?” Pappu demanded, from the circle of Nimmo’s arms. “I have twenty-hundred of them.”

  Bibi-ji couldn’t help laughing at his disarming liveliness. “After I talk to your brother, you little imp!”

  She reluctantly left them at six that evening, after giving the boys an assortment of colouring pencils, t-shirts and toys and promising to return early the next day. When Satpal came home, exhausted, at nine o’clock, he found Nimmo excited and surrounded by a sudden wealth of belongings spread out on the floor.

  “What is all this? You went shopping?” he yelled. “After I told you that money is short? Are you mad?”

  “Shhh! The children are sleeping!” Nimmo said, pointing to the inner room. “And why are you shouting at me? I didn’t go anywhere. An amazing thing happened today…”

  “Good,” grunted Satpal, his usual good humour entirely absent. “I hope it was a nice amazing thing, because I don’t have good news for us. The bank has refused to extend the deadline on the loan repayment. And Girish Jain is willing to give us the money only at an exorbitant rate of interest, and provided we sign this house over to him as surety. But it is already mortgaged twice over to the bank!”

  “So what are we to do?” Nimmo asked, her balloon of happiness punctured and forgotten.

  Satpal’s dejection was complete. “I don’t know. I have to think. I’ll ask people at the gurudwara on Sunday. Maybe someone will come up with an idea. Or money.” Then he forced a smile. “But we will worry about all that tomorrow. Now give me some food and tell me about this amazing thing that happened. Was it because of your Indira Gandhi? How was her speech? Some more tain-tain about removing poverty, eh? How about I ask her for a loan?”

  Nimmo went into the kitchen to get Satpal his dinner. What were they going to do without money? And with the new baby arriving soon? How little—she thought suddenly—how little her new aunt, Bibi-ji, must worry about such things!

  She brought a plate of food to where Satpal sat examining one of the toys lying beside him. “I didn’t go to the speech,” she said. “We had a visitor.”

  In a low voice she described the details of Bibi-ji’s arrival, the stories she had told of Nimmo’s mother, the presents she had brought for the boys.

  “She sounds like a wealthy woman,” Satpal mused. He grinned mischievously at Nimmo. “Maybe we should ask her to take us all back to Canada with her!”

  Nimmo laughed. “I am sure she would if we asked,” she said.

  “In that case, maybe you could ask her to save my business for us,” Satpal said.

  Nimmo laughed again. “Yes, why not?”

  After a brief silence Satpal said, “I was serious. Why not ask your rich and generous relative to lend us some money?”

  Nimmo gaped at him. She had never thought she would hear this from Satpal. Ask a stranger for money?

  “Well? Will you ask her?” Satpal insisted.

  “No. No,” Nimmo said. “It is indecent! We have just met her—what will she think of us taking advantage of her like this?”

  “Okay, okay, don’t get angry. It was just a thought.” His voice was tired.

  He cleared the rest of his dinner off his plate. Silence again, and then Nimmo asked, “But what will we do? Where will you find the money? Will we have to leave this house?”

  “I don’t know, Nimmo. And I am too tired to think now.”

  “We will sell my jewellery,” Nimmo offered again. “At least we will get a little money for it—not much, though.”

  This time Satpal did not rush to refuse.

  Bibi-ji returned early the next day and the next, and in
the following months she became a familiar sight in the gully. All Nimmo’s neighbours knew who she was, and some, like Kaushalya next door, rejoiced for Nimmo. Bibi-ji arrived each morning with bags of fruit and other treats for the children. “I am your aunt,” she would say firmly, in response to Nimmo’s protests, dumping the bags on the floor and kissing the boys, who acted as if they had known her all their lives. “If an aunt cannot bring gifts for her family, then who can?”

  On Saturdays she insisted on taking the family with her to see Delhi. Nimmo enjoyed these outings. Although she had spent most of her life in the city, she had neither the leisure nor the means to wander around it like the foreign tourists, who with their baggy clothes, beads, wild hair and dark glasses had taken to arriving in droves recently. Satpal never accompanied Nimmo and Bibi-ji on these trips. Nimmo felt guilty when she found him sprawled in exhaustion on their bed after returning late from one of her excursions with Bibi-ji. The food she had cooked would be untouched, and Satpal morose. She dared not ask him how the business was doing—it was evident from his mood that it was not going well. She filed her worry into a corner of her mind, intent on enjoying the pleasure of having her unexpected aunt spoil her and her boys. Now that the baby was almost due, Bibi-ji assumed the role of mother as well, telling Nimmo what food to eat, arriving early and making meals for her, insisting on buying her tender coconut every day for the vitamins it contained and eggs from Kaushalya for the protein. She forced her to drink large glasses of milk three times a day and made her rest in the afternoons, while she took care of the boys when they returned from school. Accustomed to being the caregiver for so many years, Nimmo felt spoilt and thoroughly content with the small luxuries Bibi-ji had introduced into her life.

  Her euphoria ended abruptly one evening when she returned early with Bibi-ji and the children after a day of wandering in Old Delhi to find Satpal already home, lying on the charpoy with a damp towel over his face. When he removed it, Nimmo saw with a shock that his face was bruised and swollen. He had a black eye and his lip was cut.

  “What happened?” she asked in alarm as Bibi-ji rushed the boys into the small bedroom.

  “The moneylender,” Satpal mumbled. “Bastard sent his thugs to threaten us. Wants his money back.”

  “But I thought you said you would not be borrowing from him,” Nimmo said, her voice rising.

  “I lied. I didn’t want you to worry. With the baby coming and all …” Satpal dabbed at his lip, which had opened up and was bleeding again.

  “How much?” Nimmo whispered. “How much do we owe him?”

  “Ten thousand rupees plus interest, which makes it nearly twelve or thirteen thousand.”

  “And the bank loan?” Nimmo was feeling sick.

  “Six thousand plus interest. That is due in a month.”

  “Can’t your sisters help us?” Nimmo asked desperately. From the other room came the sound of Bibi-ji telling Jasbeer to draw her a car like the fancy one they had seen that afternoon. “Manpreet jeeji might be able to help. Have you asked her?”

  “Yes,” Satpal said. “Her husband has already lent a lot of money to his brother, and he cannot give me more than two or three thousand just now. Maybe in a few months, but there is no guarantee.”

  She did not ask about his other two sisters. One was married to a farmer and herself struggled to make ends meet. The other was not on good terms with Satpal.

  They stared silently at each other. In the other room Jasbeer’s voice rose excitedly as he explained some complicated thing he had constructed with building blocks. Bibi-ji made admiring noises.

  “I’ll ask her,” Nimmo said to Satpal in a tiny voice. “But I don’t want to. God only knows what she will think of us.”

  The next day it was Bibi-ji who brought it up after all. She waited until she and Nimmo were alone in the house and said, “I couldn’t help overhearing some of your conversation yesterday, Nimmo. What is going on? Is Satpal in trouble?”

  “Yes,” Nimmo blurted out. “I didn’t want to tell you, but the shop is not doing well at all. Yesterday the moneylender sent his goondas to beat up Satpal. He was lucky, but his partner, Mohan Lal, has a broken leg. We don’t know what to do. I am sorry for telling you all this, but…”

  Bibi-ji leaned forward and patted Nimmo’s knee. “Come, come. I am the oldest member of your family now. You don’t need to hide anything from me.” She looked reproachfully at Nimmo. “I am your family, remember?” She waited, but Nimmo remained silent. “Can I help in any way?”

  Still Nimmo hesitated, feeling humiliated by her need. To take a loan from Satpal’s sisters, a good friend, an unknown person in the bank or a moneylender was one thing. But to ask a newly discovered relative was another thing altogether.

  “Nimmo, do you want me to lend you money?” Bibi-ji asked gently.

  “Just for a short while,” Nimmo said, twisting her dupatta hard. Crying softly she said, “We will return it soon. With interest.”

  “Why are you insulting me like this, Nimmo?” Bibi-ji asked. “I am like your mother now. Can a mother take interest from her daughter? No, no. I will lend you the money, and you return it when you are able to. Now go and make me a cup of chai.”

  Bibi-ji waited until Satpal had returned the money to the moneylender and agreed on a repayment schedule with the bank. She waited until Nimmo had become comfortable with the idea of being in debt to her. She waited until the moment was propitious and then she said, “Nimmo, my daughter, I have a favour to ask of you.”

  “Anything Bibi-ji, anything,” Nimmo said. “We owe this roof over our heads to you. How can I refuse you anything?”

  “You know I want the best for you and your family,” Bibi-ji said. “And remember it is only if you want to give me this favour. I want no ill will between us.”

  “How can you think that I will bear anything but affection and gratitude towards you, Bibi-ji?” Nimmo replied warmly. “You have done so much for us. Ask what it is you want. I don’t have much, but I will try to do the best I can.”

  “Let me take one of your boys back with me to Vancouver,” Bibi-ji said.

  Nimmo could not hide her shock. “You want to take away one of my sons?”

  Bibi-ji rushed on. “I know it is a big thing to ask, but he will always be your child. I will merely take care of him for a few years, give him the best education I can afford. You don’t have to say anything now. Think about it for as long as you want. You can let me know when you have decided. And remember, if you don’t agree, that is still okay. I will not be angry. It is just that Ooper-Wallah has not seen fit to fill my lap with children. I feel an emptiness inside, Nimmo, a vast emptiness even now. You cannot understand the feeling.” Bibi-ji’s eyes filled with tears. “All I want is to help my family—for you are the only family I have. The child will have opportunities that you cannot give him here, and all our love and care. And remember, if you and Satpal decide to grant me this wish, Pa-ji and I will be the boy’s guardians, not his parents. You will not be losing him, only lending him to us for a few years.” She finished her tea and rose to leave. “It’s a big decision, I know. Take your time. I’m not forcing you. I won’t come back until you call me,” she added, picking up her handbag.

  Nimmo nodded but did not speak. She was too overwhelmed to say anything—she did not know whether she was supposed to feel grateful to Bibi-ji or angry with herself and Satpal for having put themselves in this position. She felt betrayed, and guilty too, for deep inside her, another thought fought for survival. If she did not send one of her sons abroad, was she depriving him of a chance for a better life? He would be well taken care of—of that she had no doubt. Bibi-ji would enrol him in a good school where he would learn to be like those smart boys Nimmo saw in the better parts of New Delhi. He would become a doctor, perhaps an engineer. And once he was making a living he could bring Pappu and, Nimmo hoped, his soon-to-be-born sibling over as well. Then ashamed of how rapidly she had become accustomed to the idea of partin
g with Jasbeer, how she was already building castles with the idea, she began tidying the house. The frenzied ordering of the furniture, folding of the clothes and reordering of pots and pans relieved some of her tension. Then there was Satpal. What would he think of lending his son to this woman who had suddenly appeared in their lives? Well, if he was angry, Nimmo could always point out it was his financial ineptitude that had led them to this point.

  Satpal came home and, to Nimmo’s surprise and annoyance, was not as upset as she had imagined he would be. He nodded slowly when she told him of Bibi-ji’s request. “It is not a bad idea,” he said. “Think about it: so many people pay thousands of rupees and line up in front of the embassy for visas and immigration papers, and here our son is being sponsored like a king.”

  “But my Pappu is only five and Jasbeer is seven. They are so young. And what do we know of these people? They live so far away, and all we know is what Bibi-ji has told us. Suppose she makes him into a chaprasi in their house instead of this king that you are imagining?”

  “We can make inquiries. Lots of people in the gurud-wara know people in Canada.”

  “But how do we decide which boy to send?” Nimmo cried. “And how can we give away the only thing that is completely our own, not on loan from anybody but God?”

  “We are not giving away,” Satpal reasoned. “Didn’t you say that she will only be a guardian? We will ask her to sign legal papers—I will find out about this matter also at the gurudwara. I know many people who have sent their children abroad with their relatives. It is a common thing.”

  “But which one of our boys?” Nimmo asked again.

  “Pappu is too young, he still needs his mother. Jasbeer can go. We will tell Bibi-ji that she will have to bring him back to us every year. Will that make you happy?”