Homeless Bird

by Gloria Whelan

  “I don’t! I wish I hadn’t told you.”

  “I’m sorry.” He looked miserable. “How long do you want to wait?”

  I thought for a bit, trying to make out what this new life would be like. At last I said, “Not long.” When I saw the hurt look on his face, I couldn’t help asking, “If I don’t come right away, would you find another wife?”

  “I have found the wife I want.” He pulled more reeds up until I thought that if we did not leave soon, there would be no reeds left along the Yamuna River.

  “It’s late,” I said. “Maa Kamala will wonder where I am.”

  “But you don’t say no.”

  I shook my head. “I don’t say no. Give me a little time, Raji, and yes will come.” The pulling up of the reeds stopped and Raji took my hand again. He had a mournful look on his face. I reached up and smoothed his hair. “It is only for a short time, and I’ll write to you,” I promised. “Will you write to me?”

  With a slow smile he said, “If you don’t treat my letters like a lesson and send them back with red marks.”

  Each week a letter came from Raji. Some letters were no more than a few sentences, but some went on for many pages to tell me how the blossoms had come out on the lentils and how the water from his well was sweet and good tasting.

  In one letter Raji wrote that he had planted a tamarind tree in the courtyard. “It says in the Vedas, ‘He who plants a tree will have his reward.’ How soon will my reward come?”

  Often he told me of the birds he had seen, the hawks and falcons and once an eagle. In the evenings there were fireflies in the courtyard, and he could hear the cries of the nightjars as they circled overhead. Because Raji was a farmer, every letter told of the weather.

  In my replies to Raji I told him how often I thought of him. I hardly ever mentioned the weather, for there didn’t seem to be much of it in the city. It was very hot or it wasn’t. The seasons were hidden behind all the houses and the traffic on the streets. Tanu and I had moved out of the widows’ house and now had a room of our own with only one small window and no courtyard. For us the weather had disappeared altogether.

  We had left the widows’ house shedding tears and clinging to Maa Kamala. “You are women now and must make room for other widows here,” she gently chided us. “Only don’t forget us.” There were tears in her eyes as well.

  As I saw the fearful looks of the widows who were to take our place, I realized how much things had changed for me. I had friends and a secure job, and now I had Raji. But if I married Raji, would I have to give up my friends? My work? I lay awake at night trying to sort it all out.

  Tanu and I were proud of having our own place. We put pictures from old magazines on the wall and bought two charpoys and a small hot plate to cook on. The entrance to our building was off a narrow alley. Four families lived in our building, and we all shared a toilet and a faucet where we got our water and did our washing.

  At first it was exciting to have a room of our own, but I soon tired of it. It was the beginning of May, and it seemed the monsoon would never come. There was no breath of air. Dust from the street covered everything. If I took my eyes from them, the walls of our room crept closer and closer to me until I thought I would suffocate. I could go up onto the roof, but the corrugated tin burned my feet. In the street there were a hundred other people breathing in the air I needed. There were no nightjars or fireflies or hawks to be seen. I began to long for Raji and his village.

  I eagerly awaited his letters. The tamarind tree was doing well and one day would shade the courtyard. He had made shutters to keep out the rains when they came, and he was working on a surprise for me. Tanu teased me. “You will wear the letters out with all the folding and unfolding.”

  At the workroom tempers were short because of the heat. There were arguments over the sharing of scissors or who was to have the place with the best light. Even the sheerest muslin lay hot and heavy on our laps. Mr. Das said we were behind schedule, and his customers were complaining. He was always scolding Mala, who was coming in later and later. She only tossed her head and spoke of how Mr. Gupta was after her to work for him.

  It was on a day so hot that we had to wipe our sweaty hands on a cloth to keep them from soiling our work that Mala was fired.

  One of the women was embroidering a wedding sari, coiling gold thread along its borders and fastening it with the tiniest stitches imaginable.

  “You haven’t given me enough gold thread to finish the sari,” she complained to Mr. Das. All the gold thread was kept locked in a cupboard. Only Mr. Das had the key.

  Mr. Das looked puzzled. “Yes, yes. You are mistaken. I put a new skein beside you only an hour ago. You have mislaid the thread,” he insisted. “That is no way to treat something so valuable. It must be somewhere. Look carefully.”

  The woman stood up and shook out her clothes and the sari she was working on. In a puzzled voice she said, “There is no thread here.”

  The Shrew was watching. She said, “Look in Mala’s purse.” There was a satisfied smirk on her face.

  We all looked at Mala. She snatched at her purse, but before she could reach it, Mr. Das had it in his hand and was opening it. Mala sprang at him, shrieking that he had no business with her property. As she grabbed the purse, the skein of gold thread fell out. No one made a sound.

  “You are finished here,” Mr. Das said, breaking the silence. “Go and work for Gupta. It will bring him nothing but trouble.”

  I was angry with Mala and disgusted with her stealing. Yet a part of me was sorry for her. All her beauty and cleverness were wasted. What had happened to her was like the breaking of a fine vase.

  That evening, to forget the scene with Mala, I convinced Tanu to walk down to the river where Raji and I had gone. I was missing Raji more each day and thought seeing the river would bring him closer.

  As I had hoped, the thoughts of Mala began to fade. But Tanu was a city girl, and all the open space around the river made her nervous, so we soon returned to our little room. A part of me returned, but much of me stayed with the river and the kingfisher and the heron and the memories of my times there with Raji.

  In June a letter came from Raji with wonderful news. “My surprise is finished,” he wrote. “I have built a little room in the house you can keep just for your embroidering. It has two big windows so you have the sun up and down. From one window you will see the courtyard and the tamarind tree. From the other window you will see the fields where I work.”

  It was not only the room that brought tears to my eyes but the idea of a room for me taking shape in Raji’s mind, and then being built with his hands. My last doubts about the marriage flew from me like a flock of birds starting up from a field to be lost in the distance.

  I thought often of the room Raji had built for me. There would be no sound of automobiles or motorcycles or buses. Instead, I would hear the rustle of the leaves of the tamarind tree and the sound of the birds that nested there. I would put up white muslin curtains that would flutter when the breezes blew across the fields. My son would be in the fields helping Raji. My daughter would sit beside me in the room, a small scrap of cloth and a needle and thread in her hand.

  Once again I began a quilt for my dowry. My first quilt was stitched as I worried about my marriage to Hari, the second in sorrow at Hari’s death. Chandra’s quilt was stitched to celebrate her happiness. This time as I embroidered, I thought only of my own joy. “When it’s finished,” I wrote Raji, “we’ll be married.” In the middle of the quilt, spreading its branches in all directions, I put a tamarind tree to remind me of the tree in my maa and baap’s courtyard and the tree in the home I was going to. I stitched Mr. Das, Mrs. Devi, Maa Kamala, and Tanu. There was even a place on the quilt for Mala, though I had heard she was no longer at Mr. Gupta’s. I stitched a rickshaw and Raji in the fields and me embroidering in the room Raji had made for me. Around the quilt for a border I put the Yamuna River, with reeds and herons beside it.

  One
day I confided my plans to Mr. Das. I knew there were women who sent their work in to him and hoped I might do the same. At first Mr. Das was distressed at my news, but soon his black eyes flashed with excitement.

  “Why should you not be happy with your husband and home?” he said. “I remember the boy waiting for you outside the store. Very polite boy. Full of energy. I could tell that from the way he paced back and forth. With such a husband you will never go hungry. But Koly, you must not stop your work. Does he understand that?”

  I told Mr. Das about the room Raji had built for me.

  “Ah, that is good. Every few months you will come to see me, and I will give you work to take back to your room. But will you not have a house to care for? Meals to cook? Children whining for this or that? Will you have time for the work?”

  “I’ll make time,” I promised. “The house will not always be so clean, the cooking may be a little hasty, and the whining children will sit on my lap and I’ll sing to them while I work.”

  Mr. Das laughed. “If you make that a promise, I’ll give you a sari for your dowry.”

  Tanu wasn’t taking the news of my leaving so well. “You are lucky,” she said, and her voice was bitter. “Where will I find a man who will marry a widow? And who will take your place here and pay so much rent?” Because I made more money than Tanu did, I paid a greater share. At Maa Kamala’s place we learned of two girls who were looking for a room, and they were happy to join Tanu.

  “Still, it won’t be the same,” Tanu said.

  As much as I was looking forward to my marriage, I knew how much I would miss Tanu. “I’ll see you when I bring my work to Mr. Das,” I promised, “and you can come and visit us in the country.”

  Tanu shook her head. “I’ll see you here, but you won’t get me near the country. It’s full of snakes.”

  The rains had come. In his letters Raji told how green everything was. He wrote proudly of how the government agent had brought other farmers to see how well his crops were doing. Sometimes, he said, he looked into the room he had built for me, hoping to see me there. How soon would the quilt be finished?

  In my answer I wrote that the quilt was almost done. “No more than a week or so,” I promised. More and more my thoughts flew to Raji, and I stayed up late in the evenings, finishing the quilt.

  At Mr. Das’s workshop we listened to the rain beat steadily on the tin roof. We were snug and comfortable in our workroom, teaching one another stitches, trading gossip, telling one another our plans. The workroom and the women in it had become a part of me. All the while I stitched, I thought of how lucky I had been to find Raji, and how without him my life would have been very different. Even in my happiness my thoughts sometimes wandered to Sass. I thought that because of her sharp tongue and unloving ways, she would not find a welcome in her brother’s home. Poor Sass.

  Mr. Das must have told Mrs. Devi that I was to be married. The next time she came to the store, she said to Mr. Das, “I must have the first sari Koly embroiders in her new home. You will give her a length of king’s muslin to take with her.” She smiled at me. “Koly, will you find something for the border in one of Tagore’s poems?”

  Immediately I knew that it would be the homeless bird, flying at last to its home.

  author’s note

  Koly speaks Hindi, which is one of many languages spoken in India. Here are definitions of some of the words you will find in this book.

  baap: father.

  bahus: daughter-in-law.

  bhagat: a practitioner of folk medicine.

  bhang: leaves and flowers of the hemp plant.

  Brahman: the highest Hindu caste.

  caste: a social rank or division into which Hindu society is divided.

  chapati: unleavened bread baked on a griddle.

  charpoy: a wooden bed frame laced with rope.

  choli: a short-sleeved blouse worn under a sari.

  chula: a stove of baked clay sometimes with a tin oven.

  dal (or dhal): a spiced sauce of pureed lentils.

  darshan: experiencing a religious feeling by being exposed to a sacred object or place such as the Ganges River.

  gataka: a person who arranges marriages.

  ghat: wide steps usually leading down to a river.

  ghee: butter that has been heated and had the milky substance poured off.

  kameez: a long, loose shirt.

  kautuka: a yellow woolen thread worn by a bride around her wrist.

  kohl: a powder used as an eyeliner and to darken the eyebrows.

  Krishna: a Hindu god.

  kurta pajama: a long shirt and loose pants.

  lassi: a drink made with yogurt and fruits and spices. Ice is often added.

  maa: mother.

  mantra: a word or phrase repeated or sung over and over, often as a religious devotion.

  masala: a blend of spices such as cinnamon, saffron, cloves, peppercorns, and cumin ground together to flavor food.

  namaskar: a greeting accompanied by holding the palms together at chest level to greet equals and at the forehead for someone who is greatly honored.

  phul-khana: a traditional wedding veil.

  poori: bread that has been fried in hot oil until it puffs. It’s often stuffed with vegetables and spices.

  puja: a Hindu ceremony of religious worship.

  Rama: a Hindu god.

  rupee: a unit of money; about 43 rupees are equal to today’s American dollar.

  sadhu: a holy man.

  salwar: loose slacks.

  samosa: a little turnover; samosas are made with a variety of fillings.

  sari: a length of cloth, traditionally 6 meters, wrapped to make a skirt and then draped over the shoulder and the head.

  sass: mother-in-law.

  sassur: father-in-law.

  shikanji: a drink of lime and ginger juice.

  sitar: a stringed instrument.

  tabla: a set of two drums.

  tali: a tray.

  tikka mark: a round vermilion mark painted on the forehead, symbol of the third eye of wisdom; also a kind of beauty mark.

  The Vedas: the Hindu sacred writings.

  wallah: a person who is in charge; often someone who has something for sale.

  Rabindranath Tagore (1861–1941) was one of India’s greatest poets. Tagore also wrote plays and stories, composed music, and worked for India’s independence from Great Britain. In 1913 he received the Nobel Prize for literature.

  About the Author

  Gloria Whelan is a poet and an award-winning author who has written many books for young readers, including THE INDIAN SCHOOL; ONCE ON THIS ISLAND, which won the 1996 Great Lakes Book Award; FAREWELL TO THE ISLAND; RETURN TO THE ISLAND; and MIRANDA’S LAST STAND. She lives with her husband, Joseph, in the woods of northern Michigan.

  Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins author.

  PRAISE FOR Homeless Bird

  “Graceful and evocative.”

  —The New York Times Book Review

  “Whelan has entered into an imagined world with empathy and riveting authenticity.”

  —The Boston Sunday Globe

  “Kids will likely enjoy [the] dramatic view of an endangered adolescence and cheer Koly’s hard-won victories.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “An insightful, beautifully written, culturally illuminating tale.”

  —ALA Booklist (starred review)

  “Whelan’s writing is lyrical and filled with evocative images. This diminutive book delivers a mighty wallop.”

  —San Francisco Examiner & Chronicle

  “Believable and satisfying.”

  —Riverbank Review

  “Whelan embroiders details and traditions into an artful contemporary novel that is as textured and seamless as her heroine’s needlework.”

  —School Library Journal

  “Beautifully written. Koly is a memorable heroine readers will care about and love.”
/>   —The Book Report (starred review)

  “Homeless Bird is dazzling from cover to cover.”

  —The Five Owls

  “Vividly realized.”

  —Kirkus Reviews (pointer review)

  A National Book Award Winner • An ALA Notable Book

  An ALA Best Book for Young Adults

  A School Library Journal Best Book

  ALA Booklist’s Book for Youth Editor’s Choice

  International Reading Association Notable Book for a Global Socety

  Also by Gloria Whelan