Homeless Bird

by Gloria Whelan

  His favorite poems were those that described the countryside, poems about being out early when the morning light is thin and pale, and about hearing the birds’ songs. “Your poet must have spent time in a village like mine,” he said. “I count the days until I can return there.”

  “Don’t you like the city, Raji?” I asked.

  “I hate its crowds and misery. In the countryside around our village it is easy to find a place where there is not another human being. I can go to that place, and my thoughts will not be all tangled, with the thoughts of other people.”

  “I know what you mean,” I said. I told him about the river where I had washed the clothes among the kingfishers and the dragonflies, and the calls of the doves and the wind rustling through the leaves of the peepul trees.

  “I know of a place on the river I could show you,” he said. There was an eagerness in his voice. “Tomorrow I’ll come for you right after you eat. In only a half hour’s walk the city disappears.”

  I agreed at once. I was happy at the thought of walking along the river, and I guessed Raji was anxious to give me some treat in return for my teaching.

  The next evening I slipped away to meet Raji. Maa Kamala was very proper and didn’t approve of boys and girls mixing except under her watchful eye. Raji was waiting down the road for me. Work was over, and people had returned to their homes. Even the monks and widows in the temples were silent. The whole city seemed elsewhere. We hurried through the deserted streets and headed north along the river, Raji always a bit ahead of me and looking back to be sure I was following.

  The breezes off the river were pleasant. We were outside the town’s center now. Only a few people passed by, no one paying attention to us. A few fishermen were out in their boats. Two women at the river’s edge were beating clothes against rocks while their children placed twigs and leaves on the water and watched as the current caught them up. I thought of the times Sass had sent me to do the laundry at the river, and how much happier I was now.

  Raji pointed to a temple on a distant hill. “That’s where we’re headed,” he said. He began to run. I raced after him. We arrived at the temple laughing and breathless.

  The temple was deserted. Through the arched entrance I could see an image of Krishna. “What is he holding up?” I asked.

  “The hill of Govardhan,” Raji said. “It’s a hill not far from here. Krishna saved the sixteen thousand milkmaids he had married and all their cows from drowning in a terrible thunderstorm. He lifted the Govardhan hill on his little finger to shelter them. But it’s not just the temple I want to show you. Come this way.”

  He scrambled down the riverbank. “Here,” he said. “Here is a place on the river like the one you told me about. Listen—instead of the noise of the city, you can hear the wind through the trees. And there.” He pointed to a branch that stuck out over the river. “A kingfisher.” His voice was proud, as if he had caused the bird to appear.

  We took off our sandals and paddled our dusty feet in the cool water. As it edged down, the sun seemed to rest on the river. A frog poked its head up, blinked a few times, and disappeared. “It’s so quiet,” I said. “It’s the first peaceful minute I’ve had since I came to the city.”

  Raji smiled. “Yes, in the city it is all push and shove.” He gave me a long look. “Koly, I have nearly enough now to rebuild the house and buy what I need for crops. Soon I’ll be back in my village.”

  I wanted to tell him that I would miss him, but I didn’t think saying such a thing would be seemly. Instead I said, “You’re lucky to be leaving the city where one day is like another and you hardly notice the weather. It’s like living inside a glass bottle. You’ll be happier on your farm.”

  “I’ll work the farm, but I’ll have to live with my uncle until I fix the house. It’s fallen apart since my maa and baap died.” He reached down and, picking up a handful of pebbles, began to pitch them into the river. “When the house is finished,” he said in a low voice, “I’ll want a wife.”

  I found nothing to say to that. It was only natural that Raji should want a wife, but his words silenced me. I could only think how lucky a woman would be to be married to Raji; he was so kind and clever. I imagined him together with his wife on their farm, and for a moment I felt as lonely as I had on my first night in Vrindavan.

  I saw him steal a glance at me and look away. He kept flinging pebbles, sending up little explosions of water. The commotion startled a heron hunting frogs along the edge of the river. The heron flew up, his great wings beating as fast as my heart, and melted into the dusky sky. We watched until the bird disappeared.

  It was growing late. The setting sun had turned the river a muddy gray. “I have to get back,” I said. “It will be dark soon.”

  We returned to the the city talking of nothing more than a famous cinema actress who had just married, and the mosquito bites we got by the river.

  After that several weeks went by, and though I was there in the courtyard each evening waiting to greet him, Raji did not return. I wondered if I had said something to anger him. I worried that he had already left for the country and I would never see him again. I tried not to think about him, telling myself that now that I had taught him to read, our meetings were over. Still, I could not help but wonder why he had not come to say good-bye. I tried to put Raji out of my mind, but my mind would not obey me.

  One evening Maa Kamala announced that the rich lady who paid for our widows’ house was coming to see us. Everything, including the courtyard, was given a thorough cleaning. We put about vases of flowers and dressed in our best clothes. Maa Kamala fried pumpkin pooris and made shikanji with sweetened lime juice and ginger juice and sent us out to the bazaar at the last minute to get ice cubes in a little plastic sack, admonishing us to hurry so the ice would not melt.

  Just before the rich lady arrived, Maa Kamala lined us all up to see if we were presentable. Tanu was sent back to wipe off some of her lipstick and mascara. An elderly widow was told not to cover her face with her sari because the rich lady did not approve of that custom.

  We all stared as Maa Kamala greeted the rich lady with a respectful namaskar. Most of the widows thought her a great disappointment. “A face plain as a clay saucer and no gold threads woven in her sari,” Tanu whispered. “And where is her jewelry?”

  Our visitor was an older woman with a shapeless figure and unadorned clothes, but as she stopped to greet each of us, she had some small pleasant thing to say. She spoke to us in a direct and open way, so we did not feel like poor widows. She smiled knowingly, and I believe she understood just what we were thinking—perhaps she was amused at how we puzzled over her simple appearance. As she moved closer to me, I saw what Tanu had not noticed. Though there were no gold or silver threads woven into her sari, she wore a sari of great rarity and beauty. It appeared simple, but I knew it was made of a handwoven cloth called king’s muslin, the very best you could buy. My maa had pointed out to me just such a sari when we visited the shop where she took her work. Along the borders of the rich lady’s sari were embroidered flurries of blossoms in pale yellows and pinks twined with green leaves. I could not take my eyes from the clever work. She must have noticed my wide-eyed stare, for when it was my turn to greet her, she paused to ask, “What is it you do?”

  “I string marigold garlands in the bazaar, madam,” I said.

  “I am sure you make a very good job of it.” She seemed to want to say more, but after a second or two she moved on to the next widow.

  We all stood stiffly with our cups of shikanji while Maa Kamala made a polite speech about how well we were doing and how grateful we were for the rich lady’s help.

  To my dismay Maa Kamala called out, “Koly, Tanu, show Madam through the rooms.” She turned to the rich lady. “I hope you will find everything in order.”

  The lady smiled and said, “If there is too much order, I will think I have caused a lot of trouble for everyone.”

  That made me feel better. I nudged T
anu, who seemed unable to move, and we began to lead the rich lady from room to room. Some of the rooms were brightened with artificial flowers, and gaudy scarves hung on the walls. Some rooms had pious pictures of Lord Krishna. In one room I had to kick a pair of dirty sandals under a charpoy. As she followed along, the lady asked where we had come from and whether we were content at Maa Kamala’s house and what our plans were. Tanu was tongue-tied, but I could still remember my nights on the street and the man who had tried to take me away, and I told the rich lady about those things.

  When she had heard my story, she put her hand softly on my arm. She looked as if some mournful tune had found its way into her head and she could not lose it. “Those of you here at Maa Kamala’s house are so few, and in the city there are so many.” She sighed. “I wish I might do more. Indeed I will try.” She gave herself a little shake and, smiling again, said, “Have I seen all the rooms?”

  “Not ours,” Tanu bravely answered.

  “Then you must show it to me.”

  As we walked into the room, Tanu and I looked frantically about for any disorder. The rich lady noticed the copy of Tagore’s poems beside my bed. “Ah,” she said touching the book, “he is my favorite, too.” She stopped to look at my quilt. For a long moment she was silent. “Whose is this?” she asked.

  I was too shy to claim it. Tanu said, “Koly made it for her dowry.”

  The lady turned to me. “Tell me about this quilt you have embroidered. The clouds there—why have you put those in?”

  “They are the shape of the clouds that gather in our village before the rains come. That’s our market-place with the herb stalls and the barber and dentist and the man with the basket of cobras.” When I noticed Tanu standing there staring at me, I suddenly realized I was talking too much, and I closed my mouth.

  The rich lady said, “I remember that you mentioned working in the bazaar making garlands.”

  I nodded, wondering if there was something in the quilt she did not like, and I would lose my job and be thrown out of Maa Kamala’s house.

  “I know a maker of fine saris,” she said, “who is anxious to find women who are skilled in embroidery. But he does not want women who merely copy what others have done. He wants women who have original ideas and who can translate those ideas into their work. He is looking for artists.”

  I did not know what that had to do with me, but the woman was looking at me as if she were waiting for me to say something, so I mumbled, “Such artists must be difficult to find.”

  The rich lady laughed. “Evidently not so difficult, for just now I have found one! Tomorrow I will come and take you to see him.”

  ten

  The next day as I waited nervously, I asked Maa Kamala about the rich lady. Maa only shook her head and said, “You must not call her that. She has a name like everyone else, and it is Mrs. Devi. Now, go quickly and wash your feet properly. You cannot go with dirty toenails. And don’t forget to take your quilt with you.”

  It was my first ride in an automobile. The man who drove the car sat in front, and Mrs. Devi and I in the back. There seemed to be a cool breeze trapped inside the car.

  Amazed, I could not help asking, “Where does the coolness come from?”

  “That’s the air-conditioning in the car,” Mrs. Devi replied.

  Of course I had heard of such a thing. I could feel the cool air as I walked by the entrances of the more expensive cinemas, but here I was in the middle of it. Mrs. Devi talked pleasantly while I sat straight up, afraid to open my mouth. We drove though the streets, sitting upon soft cushions with our windows shut against the heat and dust. The people on the street seemed very far away from us. I thought of Raji and how hard he had to work to carry someone in his bicycle rickshaw and how easily the thing inside the automobile pulled us or pushed us; I did not know which.

  Mrs. Devi said, “When I first saw your quilt, Koly, I thought of my baap. He came from a village very like yours.”

  I must have shown my surprise, for she went on to say, “When my baap was ten years old, his mother, who was a widow, was taken ill and could no longer work. Baap was sent to stay with his uncle for a few days. When he returned, he found that his maa was gone. He was told she had died, but he soon found out she had been taken to Vrindavan and abandoned here.”

  I stared at Mrs. Devi, amazed at the telling of this story, which was so much like my story. “What happened?” I whispered.

  “The unhappy boy ran away to Vrindavan to find his maa. He got a job as a helper to an iron-monger. At the end of each day he looked for his maa, but he never found her. One day a man who made his living drilling wells for water came to have his drill repaired. My baap, who was now a young man, had an idea that if the drill were made in a certain way, it would be more effective. And so it was. He began to make such drills, and soon they were sold all over India, and he became rich.” She smiled at me. “When he died, he left money in his will for a widows’ house.”

  I had a million questions I wanted to ask, but the car had pulled up in front of a small shop. Draped in the window of the shop was a rainbow of saris. A small sign with the proprietor’s name, Mr. Das, was in a corner of the window.

  When we entered, Mr. Das folded his hands and bowed to Mrs. Devi. I liked the man at once, for he reminded me of the bandicoot under the veranda. He was sleek, with sharp black eyes and little ears. He was as quick as the bandicoot as well, for as soon as we had stepped in, he latched the door behind us, as if he had caught us and had no mind to let us go. I would not have been surprised to see a long tail snapping back and forth behind him. He greeted Mrs. Devi with a happy, expectant smile.

  “No, no, Mr. Das, I didn’t come to buy today. I came to bring you a gift.”

  He looked even more pleased.

  “Here she is.” Mr. Das stared at me. I am sure he knew at once from my appearance that I was not there to buy a sari of king’s muslin. Still, he bowed to me and waited.

  Mrs. Devi spread open my quilt. I wanted to disappear; I had looked around the shop, and the embroidery on the saris was very fine. I was sure it was beyond anything I could do.

  Mr. Das bent over the quilt, taking a corner up in his hand and holding it close to his eyes. He turned the work over, and I silently thanked my maa for teaching me that one side must look as well done as the other. He nodded as if the quilt were something of value that had been dropped upon his path.

  “That is Koly’s doing,” Mrs. Devi said. “She is looking for work, and why should she not work here for you? Could she find a more suitable place?”

  Mr. Das’s quick black eyes darted from the quilt to me and back. He did not seem anxious to have me, but I could see he did not want to displease his good customer. “There would be much to teach her.”

  “Could she find a better teacher than you?”

  He looked at me again. “We might try,” he said.

  “Excellent! There is no time like the present. I’ll just leave her here.” With that she bowed briefly to Mr. Das, who hastened to return her bow. In a moment she was gone, and Mr. Das and I were left facing one another.

  I couldn’t help saying in a small voice, “You don’t have to take me.” I edged toward the door.

  Mr. Das seemed pleased with my remark. “At least you do not push your way in because of Mrs. Devi. Come with me.”

  I hurried along behind him. He led me through a long, dark passage that was more tunnel than hallway. At last we came into a large, bright room with five or six women sitting cross-legged, some on the floor, some on charpoys, all bent over lengths of cloth that were spread out over the floor like bright carpets. Around them were skeins of thread, scissors, and little fabric squares poked full of needles.

  The women paused in their work and glanced at me curiously. They were all older than I, and I was sure that they did not think I could even draw a thread through a needle. Mr. Das hunted about until he came upon a scrap of cloth. He tossed it to me. “Show me what you can do with this,” he sai
d.

  I looked quickly at the borders the other women were embroidering. One of the women was working a pattern of twining ivy. I did the same.

  When Mr. Das came to look at my work, he shook his head. “No,” he said. “Why should you copy what another does? That already exists. I want to see what is in your own mind.” I expected him to send me away. Instead he gave me another scrap of cloth.

  Raji was never far from my thoughts. Over and over again I had looked back at our evening at the river and wondered why I had not heard from him. As I thought of the river, I remembered the heron. I began to stitch its long neck and its head with its sharp beak. I stitched the long dangling legs and the great wings. I forgot where I was. From time to time Mr. Das looked over my shoulder but said nothing. When at last I finished the heron, I looked up to see Mr. Das standing there smiling. “That is what I want. It is not just a heron; it is your heron. It has flown right out of your head and, more important, out of your heart. Come back tomorrow, and I will have a sari for you to work on. I must think a little what weave and what color will be best. Now I suppose you want to know what I will pay you.”

  He named a sum three times what I was paid for the stringing of marigolds. Surprised, I almost told him the sum was too much, but one of the other women came up to him just then to ask for thread the color of the fruit of a mango. By the time he had turned back to me, I had resolved to hold my tongue. I smiled politely and said the sum seemed very fair and I would return the next day at whatever hour he wished.

  Mr. Das’s workroom became the most important place in my life. I couldn’t believe that someone was paying me for doing what I loved best. There were days when Mr. Das looked at my work and shook his head. “Koly, what can you be thinking of? What woman would wish to wear a sari on which a dog chases a goose? You have lost your senses.” So I put aside the memory of the little pariah dog and the gosling. I was able to embroider many other memories, though. I worked a design of silver hoops, and in that way I got my earrings back again. I made a pattern of marigold garlands in honor of Hari and to remind me of the hours I had spent in stringing the orange flowers. One thing after another in my life was captured and stitched to be saved. All the work was done on the finest muslin, each weave of muslin with its own name: woven air, dragonfly wing, summer cloud, evening dew.