by Vikas Khanna
Choti cinched up her lips and asked, “Noor, can you teach me to read?”
Noor laughed and ate her last bite of mango. “If you want me to, I will try, I’m not very good at it myself, I recite from memory,” Noor said. The emotional bond had already become so strong between them that Noor was willing to undertake such a great task late in life just for Choti. “Now finish your mango. You better eat it before the flies discover it like they did my chai,” Noor said, tucking the mango seed into the knot at the end of her saree.
Choti gripped her unripe mango with both hands and started to shamelessly devour it, smacking her lips at its tingling sourness.
“Child, slow down. You’ll choke!” Noor said.
“I’m so hungry.”
“Enjoy your mango, child, my heart tells me that Anarkali and Chintu will come back to you very soon,” Noor said, embracing Choti, her cheeks radiating with a warm glow. “And my heart is rarely mistaken.”
Choti looked at Noor and frowned. “I miss them so much and worry about them. With Anarkali on my mind and all the racket the cops make at the gym, I don’t even sleep anymore. And, do you know, Raja’s potbellied chamchas came to the Sangam Chowk and ordered me not to beg there,” Choti blurted all in a rush.
Noor gasped. “How will you survive?”
“I don’t know, I will never trust another partner again. I don’t want any other partner, now that Chintu cheated me of my money and disappeared,” Choti said. Then immediately tried to change the subject: “Noor! Did I ever tell you that Anarkali taught me a begging trick so we would know what our odds were of getting cash from different kinds of people?”
Noor shook her head.
“Anarkali’s system is bloody brilliant. For example, someone who is coming back from a relative’s cremation at Manikarnika Ghat is almost always more generous,” Choti said, and then she stopped to contemplate: “But then, that same someone who gave, say ten rupees, always looks even more sad afterward, it’s so strange. They want to give and they don’t want to give.”
Noor’s eyes locked on Choti’s. “You only feel the burning body when it’s been a part of you. No one else can feel it. That’s what makes them more charitable but perhaps also remorseful.”
Choti was lingering near Sangam Chowk considering whether or not she should risk begging for rupees from all the cars passing through on their way to or from the ghats— there were so many windows to pound on—when suddenly she was surrounded by people. The mango-vendor had called Inspector Raja’s chamchas and now Choti was lost in a forest of potbellies, sticks, and accusatory fingers, the biggest tree being a familiar gourd-like nose.
“This is the girl that stole two mangoes from me and then verbally abused me!” the mango-wallah barked. A big hairy hand clutched Choti’s arm and she peeled it off digit-by-digit using her fingernails. “Yeow, don’t scratch me,” a voice said.
By now the chamchas had raised their sticks and were about to hit her, when out of nowhere, just as Noor had predicted, appeared Anarkali, looking no worse-for-wear. The scene made her livid, and she screamed abuses and threw herself in Choti’s defense. Then she grabbed the mango-vendor by the arms and physically shoved him aside. “You don’t touch her. If you do, you will seriously regret it,” Anarkali said, while Choti darted for cover behind her best friend.
The vendor stared back at Anarkali, fumed and sulked.
“How much for the two mangoes?” Anarkali shrieked. Her sudden looming presence had knocked all of them into silence. “How much for the mangoes, you heartless people!” Anarkali shrieked again.
“One rupee,” the vendor said.
Anarkali reached into her blouse and handed the vendor two rupees.
“Now don’t ever touch her again,” she said.
The vendor grunted as he pocketed his cash and slunk back from wherever he had come. Raja’s chamchas were too lazy to do anything else. They just stood around, fondling their sticks and glaring at Choti and Anarkali. “You two aren’t out of hot water yet,” one of them said. “We’re going directly to Inspector Raja to report that you are back and causing trouble again. We’ll see what he has to say about it. If I were you, I would never show my face near Sangam Chowk again. Otherwise, it will mean jail…”
“Or worse,” said a smaller chamcha, who had puffed his chest so full of his own hot air that his shirt stretched at the buttons.
Then as quickly as they arrived, the gang of chamchas jumped back on their motorbikes, leaving Anarkali with her glaring eyes, and Choti on the verge of tears. Her friend had returned. Choti wrapped her arms around Anarkali’s bony waist, which seemed more emaciated than ever.
“I missed you, Anarkali,” Choti said, her eyes shining up into Anarkali’s bloodshot gaze. “Where did you go? I felt so alone out here.”
Now Anarkali’s eyes moistened. “I was trying to fly away, little one,” she smiled and held Choti’s face in her rough hands. “My nightingale, I wanted to fly just like you,” she said.
Late at night, in her room at the ashram, Noor stitched a piece of discarded pink rose-patterned cloth into a new frock for Choti. Even lightly holding the colorful cloth burned Noor’s hands and eyes, like some deadly contact that beguiled with its beauty. Through squinting eyes in the dim light of the Varanasi moon, Noor measured out a pocket and then went to work on the frock’s neck. Her exertion through her shame made it more and more difficult to pass the thread through her needle, and her hands were starting to quiver. She heard Asha’s approaching footsteps and hid the frock, still stuck with the needle and strewn with thread, under her thin pillow, making sure that not one inch of frock would bait Asha’s probing eyes.
The next morning Choti expertly shimmied down from her sky-nest and rushed again to the secret terrace off Tulsi Ghat to meet Noor at their bench. In a way, it was like they had never left each other and were simply continuing the conversation they had started.
Noor looked around to make sure no one was standing close enough to hear her speak, and motioned for Choti to crouch closer to her on the bench so she could continue the story she had started:
“So, as I was telling you, Dwarka, the Krishna devotee who had renamed his granddaughter for light, was an ardent believer in freedom,” Noor began, then lowered her voice. “Even freedom for women.”
Noor’s words regarding “freedom for women”— and that included girls—fascinated Choti, completely mesmerizing her.
“To Dwarka, believing in something did not mean the same thing as acting on those beliefs. He had actually married off his deceased daughter when she was only 10 years old, a girl who wasn’t even capable of birthing a child yet. He blamed this decision on the pressure and superstition of society. It was that sudden shining presence of his new Krishna-blessed granddaughter in his arms that made him feel different. From seeing that first ray of light come to her face and onward, Dwarka believed in acting on his revolutionary but sinful beliefs, and he would dedicate all of them to his light-filled granddaughter, Noor.”
Choti gasped softly and touched a finger to her lips, as old widow Noor continued:
“One day Noor began to cry because she was hungry. Dwarka had no idea what to do, so he called out for his wife, Paro, who didn’t respond, even as his granddaughter’s crying split his ears. When Dwarka walked into their bedroom to see what was going on, he found his wife stewing with anger, looking like she had just lost a war and returned injured from a battlefield. ‘Paro! What are you doing in here? Our granddaughter needs you, she won’t stop crying,’ Dwarka pleaded.
“‘So let her cry! Let your precious granddaughter die, in fact. She is Satan’s child! The birth of this little evil one is what killed my daughter. And now her own father doesn’t want the child. Can we blame him? She killed his wife! Go drown her in the Ganga, don’t bring her to me,’ Dwarka’s wife shrieked.
“His wife’s harsh words shook Dwarka to the soles of his feet. But no matter, because Dwarka was already completely dedicated to his little on
e and couldn’t take his eyes off her tiny fingers and fists, her cries of sorrow or hunger or delight, and, especially, the light that seemed to emanate from her.
“After his wife’s rejection of her, whenever his granddaughter cried, whether half-asleep in a dream, or half-awake in a nightmare, Dwarka would prepare her feed. He began to dedicate every hour of every day to her. In the mornings, he took her to witness the union of sunrise and Ganga, and though she might have been too young to understand, Dwarka always whispered in Noor’s ear to explain that the sun didn’t mind living in darkness for a while, because he knew that he would be welcomed by Ganga the next day. Dwarka also took her to every ghat on the Ganga to witness various ceremonies, and even to secret meetings where revolutionaries discussed how to overthrow the British rulers. They did all their favorite things together, usually accompanied by the eating of the sweetest treats.
“Dwarka celebrated his granddaughter’s first steps, her first falls, her laughter, every wave or squeeze of her hands, and her first words, which is what meant most to him, because while most children’s first word was ‘Ma,’ his granddaughter’s first word was ‘Pa,’ and hearing her say it the first time almost broke his heart.
“Some of Dwarka’s more conservative friends shared their concern for the name he had given his granddaughter because they thought it sounded Muslim, whereas they were all Hindus, to which Dwarka would cleverly answer, ‘Light has no religion, religion is the realm of darkness.’ This belief usually left these friends of his aghast.”
Choti chimed in, “I agree with Dwarka.”
“I believe you,” Noor said as she continued: “Noor’s light grew brighter as she matured and she became an ever more accurate reflection of Dwarka. Together, Grandfather Dwarka and Granddaughter Noor shared a great life, sharing everything from laughter, bad jokes, philosophical discussions, long walks under the sun, all the pains and pleasures, blessings and secrets of the Ganga, and smaller, but best of all green mango chaat—well, Noor never shared her chaat because it was her absolute favorite, with its slices of sour green mango covered in chilli powder, lemon, and salt. Noor’s favorite delight always gave her a sore throat and made her cough but how could Dwarka deny his granddaughter what she loved best?”
“One day I too will eat mango chaat,” Choti said, “but I’ll have mine with less chilli powder.”
“Of course, you will,” Noor replied.
“One day we will have mango chaat and samosas and aloo cutlets and jalebis and chai with lots of sugar, just you and I, and we won’t share with anyone, okay Noor?”
Noor laughed, “Okay.” And resumed her story:
“One day Dwarka’s wife Paro surprised him by starting her day not with a ‘good morning’ but with a howling and beating of her chest….”
“Why?” Choti said.
“I’ll tell you. You see, Janamashtmi had come around again, the day Paro and had Dwarka’s only daughter had died giving birth to Noor. Paro was still embittered and heartbroken. That day was also the seven-year anniversary of Dwarka’s little light being reborn. He had bought fried breads and sweets so that he and his little Noor could distribute them to all the saints and sages they would meet on the ghats along Ganga. As they were passing out their gifts to everyone, the two grew tired and sat somewhere along the ghats. That’s when Noor surprised him with a most difficult question, one Dwarka feared she would one day ask, ever since she had learned to call him Pa—
“‘Why doesn’t Grandma talk to me?’ His little light’s questions didn’t end there. ‘Why is Grandma so angry at me that she shuts the door on me when I want to see her?’ Dwarka’s little light persisted.
“Dwarka hung his head and stared out over Ganga, then swung his chin back to Noor: ‘My light, don’t be fooled. The problem is Grandma loves you too much and has no idea how to express it,’ Dwarka fibbed, and put his arm around his granddaughter to soothe her. Noor barely nodded.
“It was then that Dwarka reached into his pocket and pulled out a book the color of a lotus flower, which opened with the lines, ‘Death is not extinguishing the light; it is only putting out the lamp because the dawn has come.’ The lines were written by Rabindranath Tagore, but rewritten in Dwarka’s handwriting.
“From that day on, Dwarka would read to her every day for the next two years, until the day Noor went to her Grandfather’s room to wake him up, but couldn’t. The keeper of her light had died, and she remembered how some people had arrived to take away his body on a green bamboo bier, as well as how her grandmother beat her own chest again in her room, crying: ‘You unlucky girl, first you killed my daughter, now you killed my husband!’
“A few months later, after her morning routine of watching Ganga welcome the sun with its shades of pink or orange or red or other, almost indescribable colors, Noor arrived home and noticed her grandmother’s behavior had changed. Paro gave her some nice clothes to wear and gave her a glass of milk to drink. Her grandmother’s kind behaviors only filled Noor’s heart with suspicion. Something was wrong.
“Before she knew it, Dwarka’s innocent little light was draped in a saree of glittering gold that swirled around her, and someone braided her long hair and decorated it with flowers. An hour or so later, she saw her grandmother welcoming a small group of people, including more distant family members with a pooja thali, a plate laid out with rice, marigolds, red thread and a smudge of vermilion. Then a priest walked in carrying all the necessary items for a wedding in his bag, and began to draw a few lines on the ground, placing the havan kund, the container for the sacrificial fire, in the middle. Before Noor even realized what was going on, she was walking around the fire with the elderly man who was to become, of all things, her husband.”
Choti reared back, trying to catch her breath, as Noor now struggled to speak. “Was he a hundred years old?”
“Older,” Noor laughed
“Was there a lot of mithai at the wedding?” Choti wanted to know about the sweets served to the guests.
“I don’t know. Noor was too sick to eat that day. Her elderly groom died a few months later, but Noor did not cry. In fact, she was happy! She felt free. Maybe now she could go back home to her old house, the place that retained her memories of her grandfather, as well as be allowed to visit the ghats at sunrise again. She was filled with hope— until she saw some saints and women dressed in white sarees arrive.”
“What did they do?” Choti asked in fear.
“They grabbed her and shaved her head!”
“Sons of pigs! How dare they! If I’d been there, I’d have hit them so hard…” Choti exclaimed.
“Child,” Noor said, “from that day on, Dwarka’s granddaughter was forced to wear a white saree and sent off to live in an ashram for the rest of her life. She was not allowed to possess anything—no resources, no friendships, no taste, no life or soul, and no color.”
“Thank god you still had your grandfather’s diary. If he was alive he would have saved you…”
“No dear, he couldn’t have. This is the accursed custom of our land.”
“What was your husband’s name?” Choti said.
Noor smiled wryly. “That’s the best part of the story. To this very moment that I’m sitting next to you, I don’t know his name! Once I was termed a widow, there were shackles everywhere, I couldn’t shake them off, or fight, or even hope to express my opinion against the system,” Noor said.
“What are shackles?” Choti said.
“Like the handcuffs they put on thieves.”
“But you didn’t steal anything! It was they who stole from you! That’s so unfair! If I was there I would have given your grandmother a solid thwack!” Choti said loyally.
Noor smiled at her brave little friend and placed one hand on top of the other on her lap. “But your life will be different,” she said. “My heart tells me your life will be like one of those birds set free to fly away over the Ganga. In the end, in order to see you, the world will have to look up, not stamp on y
ou with their feet, not make you beg them for rupees.”
“How do you know?” Choti said, stiffening her posture again.
Noor tapped the middle of her chest, and Choti nodded. “It’s never wrong,” Choti said, so delighted that she clapped her hands together and stuck her tongue between her teeth and laughed until her grin seemed glued on her face forever.
“But it might help you fly if you went to school someday,” Noor said.
“Hmm, maybe. Chintu used to say the same thing to me. He was trying to collect money to send me to school but then, when we ran short, he tried to gamble and lost everything. You know, when I haven’t been on my rope for a while, I dream that I am on it. And then I dream I start bouncing on it until I can fly, and then I see everything in Varanasi from above, and it all looks so small. Sometimes I feel like I can fly, and sometimes I feel like I never will, but wish that I could. It’s my dream, to fly. The more Anarkali tells me that I can, and the more you tell me that I can, well, somehow, someday I’m sure that I will. How can grown-ups be wrong, right?” Choti said.
“Child, you are too smart for your own good,” Noor said, reaching around to pack up her pink book, her pot of Ganga water, and the memories she had shared, so she could return to her daily routines at the ashram. “I better get back to my tulsi.”
As Noor slowly stood and made her way across the terrace, Choti whistled. “Noor!” she said.
Noor stopped and turned around. “Yes?”
“This year, I promise, you and I will play Holi like you and Dwarka did once, and no one—no bloody one—will stop us.”
Choti brazenly defied Raja’s chamchas’ orders to stay away from Sangam Chowk—in fact she happily skipped all the way there from the terrace in her blue slippers, which were starting to fade even more into the vague colors of a midday cloud.
She didn’t want to think about what had happened to Anarkali at the hands of Raja, she was just excited to have her back. She was hoping fervently that when she reached Sangam, Anarkali would already be there, her usual sometimes-charming, sometimes-surly self.