by Shobha Rao
She was going to find Savitha.
8
Poornima made a rough calculation and decided that Savitha had left at around four in the morning. She guessed this because, as she recalled, on that last night, she’d gone to sleep with her arm around her, and when she’d woken up, with the sun, Savitha was gone. When did the sun rise? Maybe six thirty or seven? If that was the case, then Savitha had to have left much earlier, to avoid detection, so probably she left at four or five in the morning. Closer to four, Poornima guessed. But why not earlier? Say at two or three in the morning? It was possible, Poornima thought, but where would she go? None of the buses or trains ran at that hour, and trying to catch a ride on a lorry on the highway would’ve been too risky. Besides, if she’d done that, if she’d gotten into a random lorry on the Tenali Road, then she could be anywhere by now. She could be in Assam or Kerala or Rajasthan or Kashmir. Or anywhere in between. Anywhere at all. And that, Poornima refused to consider.
She also refused to consider the nearly two years that had passed since Savitha had left, and that that amount of time, too, could have taken her anywhere. But this Poornima chose to ignore. After all, she told herself, time was simple. Time was no kind of mystery. It was naked and unblinking; it was like the buffalo she saw plowing the fields. All it did was plod along, never wavering and without a thought in its head. Time was all her days in Namburu, and all the days before that. But geography? Now, geography Poornima considered a mystery. Its mountains, its rivers, its vast and endless plains, its seas that she had never seen. Geography was the unknown.
So it was decided: if she had left at four A.M. or thereabouts, she could’ve taken only one of two buses. Only two buses ran at that time of morning. One went south, to Tirupati, and the other went north, to Vijayawada. Now, here was another geographic mystery: Which one would she have taken?
Poornima considered the question, and then something floated back to her. Something so fine, so like gossamer, that it could hardly be considered a thought, or even a fragment of a thought, but it was there, she was certain it was there, and she brushed at it as if it were a spider’s web, caught in the deep recesses of her mind. Poornima was by now on the outskirts of Namburu. She was going to the bus depot that was on the highway, rather than the one in Namburu, so that no one would see her. As she approached it, she saw an advertisement for amla oil. On the advertisement was the green amla fruit, with sparkling oil, lit by the sun, dripping out of it and straight into a pale green bottle. Next to the bottle was a photograph of a woman with thick, lustrous hair, taken as she spun her head, her hair fanning out toward the viewer as she turned. Presumably, the amla oil had made her hair so lustrous and thick. Poornima stared at the advertisement—she studied the perfect amla fruit, and the drops of oil, and the woman—and then she looked again at the amla. The perfect fruit. She waved aside the gossamer web, and then she knew. She knew where Savitha had gone: she’d gone to Majuli. She had to have.
Poornima smiled; her entire face burst into pain, but she smiled anyway. And where was Majuli? She recalled her saying it was on the Brahmaputra, and Poornima knew this much about geography: she knew the Brahmaputra was north, and so, twenty minutes later, Poornima flagged down the bus to Vijayawada, going north, and she didn’t even notice when the driver and the conductor and the old woman she sat down next to gave her strange looks, revolted looks, as they stared at her face, her burns, no longer covered, but raw and pink like the sunrise.
* * *
When she got to Vijayawada, the first thing she did was go to a medical shop and buy bandages and iodine. She learned how to wrap the burns and apply the iodine from the man who was working there—an old man with glasses, who asked no questions at all about how she’d gotten the burns, as if he saw women with this exact injury every day, which Poornima figured he probably did. The only question in his mind, she guessed, was whether it was oil or acid. But even that he didn’t ask, though she thought he might’ve been able to tell just by looking at them. Regardless, she liked him; she liked how gentle he was when he showed her how to wrap the bandage around her neck and over her cheek, and then to tie it so it was snug but not too tight. He said, “It needs air,” referring to the burn, and then he said, “What else do you need?”
Poornima said she needed directions to the train station, and he nodded. This, too, he seemed to expect.
The walk, he said, was long, so it was better to take the bus. But Poornima decided to walk anyway, and along the way, she bought a packet of idlis, because they were all that she could manage to chew. Then she drank a cup of tea, standing next to the tea stall, with the men gathered around staring openly, or surreptitiously, but all of them with disgust—knowing what was beneath her bandages—and maybe a few, one or two, with shame.
When Poornima reached the train station, after an hour of walking, the sky was just beginning to lighten. The white marble floors, strewn with sleeping bodies, still shone between the array of arms and legs draped over the very old and the very young. She stepped gingerly between them, entered the vestibule, and studied the listing of trains. Obviously, Majuli wouldn’t be listed, since it was an island, so Poornima looked for all northbound trains. There were none. At least, none that left from Vijayawada.
She stared and stared at the listings, thinking she must be mistaken, but not one was going anywhere beyond Eluru. She turned and went to the ladies’ counter. It wasn’t open yet, and it wouldn’t be for another two hours. At this, Poornima considered waiting in the vestibule, but then she thought she might be able to find out more information on the platform.
She paid five rupees for the platform ticket, and when she walked through, the entire length of the first platform was bustling. An overnight train from Chennai had just arrived. The coffee and tea stalls were steaming, the puri wallah yelled through the windows of the train, running up and down its length, vada and idli packets were piled nearly to the rafters, and even the magazine and cigarette and biscuit shops were open, along with the sugarcane juicer shop across from it, already thronged with people. When she passed the water fountain, it was ten deep, with everyone pushing and trying to get to one of the six taps.
Poornima had never seen so many people. She stood for a moment, disoriented, and then realized she should be looking for someone to ask about the northern trains. There were hundreds of porters, everywhere it seemed, in their brick-colored shirts, but they paid her no attention, and in fact pushed her aside once or twice to make way. Poornima edged toward the wall, away from the train, and waited. Finally, after twenty minutes, the train pulled away, and everything, all of a sudden, stopped. Now the porters, the ones who hadn’t been hired, were standing around, listless, drinking a cup of tea or coffee, and waiting for the next train. Poornima pulled her pallu over her head and approached a group of three who were standing near one of the wide girders. They weren’t talking to one another, but they were definitely standing together.
“Do you know anything about the northern trains?” Poornima asked.
The slightest one, hardly older than an adolescent, looked her up and down and stopped just before her face. He said, “Do I look like the information booth?”
“It’s closed.”
“Then wait,” another one of them said.
“But there’s not a single one going north. Nothing past Eluru. Do you know anything about it?” she said, turning to the third man, older, with a graying mustache and a thick shock of salt-and-pepper hair.
He, too, looked at Poornima, mostly at her bandaged face, which she was trying unsuccessfully to obscure, and said, “The Naxals. They blew up the tracks past Eluru.”
“So there are no trains?”
“Did you hear me?”
“But no trains? None? How can that be?”
The young man laughed. “Take it up with Indian Railways. I’m sure they’ll be happy to explain.”
Poornima walked away from the porters and back to her spot by the wall. She slid to the ground.
Still, once she decided to stay, the first thing she did was buy a small water jug, for the purpose of washing up, and then she sat down, next to the Higginbotham’s bookstore stall, and tried to look like she belonged there, like she was waiting for a train, or for someone—someone dear to her, someone on a train—to arrive. The stall had a niche, behind a stand of magazines and comic books, and Poornima found that she fit perfectly into this niche, as long as her legs were pulled to her chest and wouldn’t be seen. From this vantage point, looking up, she was amazed by how few people looked down. None, as far as she could tell during her first few hours in the niche.
After a time, she got up to stretch her legs and walked up and down the bridge that stretched over the platforms, with stairs leading down to each. From here, she could see the long sinews of the trains coming and going, the roofs over each of the platforms, and the tracks—how many were there? Maybe twenty, maybe more; she’d never seen such a thing, she’d never even known that so much commerce, so many people, and so much travel existed in the world—stretching in every which direction like the lines on the palm of a hand.
This was her daily schedule: sleep on one of the platforms, or the vestibule, check the train departures first thing every morning for anything going past Eluru, and if there were none, buy herself a packet of idlis and a cup of coffee or tea, depending on her mood, and then walk or huddle in the niche behind Higginbotham’s.
It wasn’t until the beginning of her second week that she met Rishi. He was a slim boy about her age, maybe a little younger. She had noticed him before, lurking on the platforms, at their very edges, and studying everyone who passed him. He studied them so keenly that she wondered if he wanted to draw them, or rob them. But he never did, at least not that she could see. He was there every day, just as she was. He’d studied her, too, once or twice, though she’d ignored him and had kept walking. Still, he must’ve known she was mostly living behind Higginbotham’s because one afternoon, he came over and began to examine the stand of magazines and comic books. He picked up a Panchatantra and flipped through it. Then he picked up a film magazine that had a woman in a red dress on the cover. When he put that one back on the stand, somebody Poornima couldn’t see yelled out, “Hey. Hey! You. Either buy it, or don’t. But don’t get your mother’s hair grease all over it.” The boy backed away from the stand—Poornima could see his sandaled feet take a step back—but then he swung his head and looked right at her.
Poornima jumped. Her heart stopped. Was he the police?
“What happened to your face?” he said.
Poornima pulled her pallu down over her forehead, nearly over her eyes, and didn’t say anything.
“Are you deaf?”
She shrugged.
“Let me see.” He came toward her; Poornima pushed deeper into the wall. He knelt a little, but gently, with a kind of grace. He wasn’t the police; that much Poornima knew, though she kept her face lowered and raised only her eyes. He looked in them, and then he said, “Your neck, too? Your father or your husband?”
Poornima was quiet for a moment, as if she was trying to decide, and she said, “No one. It was an accident.”
The boy nodded, and then he said, “It always is. My name’s Rishi. What’s yours?”
Why was he talking to her? What did he want? She clearly had no money, but he didn’t seem frightening. He seemed more like a brother than anything else. Still, she didn’t respond, and after lingering a few moments, he shrugged and walked away. She watched him: he walked forward, still where Poornima could see him, and then he went and talked to somebody unloading burlap sacks from a goods train, and then he bought himself a cup of tea. He looked in Poornima’s direction once or twice, as if making sure she was still there, and then, when he’d finished his tea, he waved at her, as if he’d known her all his life, as if she were an old friend he was seeing off at the train station, and then he walked right past her, out of the vestibule and into the world.
* * *
But he was back again the next day. And the next. And the next. And each time, he waved at Poornima when he came in the mornings and waved again when he left at night. She began, surprisingly, to look forward to seeing him. If he happened to pass her in the middle of the day, as he often did, seeing as they both wandered the same ten platforms, then he didn’t wave; he didn’t even look at her. They nearly bumped into each other once, on the passenger bridge over one of the platforms, and yet he didn’t so much as acknowledge her. How odd, she thought. That evening—after they’d bumped into each other on the bridge—she sprang up when she saw him approaching the exit, on his way to wherever he went every night, and she said, “Poornima.”
He looked at her and smiled, and she felt a rush of relief and warmth.
After that, they walked and talked together almost every day. She told him about Kishore, and her mother-in-law, and even about Indravalli, and a little about her father. Then she said, “Where do you go every night?”
He straightened his back, and his voice grew serious. “I have a very important job.”
“Oh? But you’re here all day. Is it a night job?”
He seemed to consider this for a moment, and he finally said, “I work here. I’m working now. I go in the evenings to report back to my boss.”
“You’re working? But all you do is walk around.”
“It just looks like that. You don’t know anything.”
Maybe I don’t, Poornima thought, but she knew when someone was working, and Rishi certainly wasn’t. “What is it that you do?”
“I find people.”
“Like who? Like lost people?”
He shrugged. “How long are you going to stay there? Behind Higginbotham’s?”
“Till the northern trains start running.”
“The Naxals blew up the tracks.”
“Why do you think I’m still here?”
“Do you have someone up north? Someone waiting for you?” he asked, his voice taking on a strange curiosity.
“Yes. In a way.”
“The tracks could take weeks, months. Why don’t you just go around?”
That had never occurred to Poornima. Why hadn’t it ever occurred to her? Something so simple.
“You’re lying.”
“I’m not lying. About what?” she said.
“You don’t have someone waiting for you. I can tell. I can tell you’re alone.”
Poornima scratched at her bandages. The itchiness had begun, and she could hardly sleep or eat or do anything for how maddening it was to not scratch. “How can you tell?”
“I help girls just like you,” he said. “Girls who are alone. I help them be safe and make money. Just until they’re ready to leave. Like when the tracks are fixed, for instance. But most never leave, they like it so much.” He asked Poornima if she wanted a cup of tea, and she said yes.
“What do they do?”
“Office work. Like a secretary. Or they work in a fancy shop. Or sometimes in a sari store. Things like that. Easy work.”
“And you’ve helped lots of girls?”
Rishi nodded. “Oh yes. Hundreds. Probably more. I know every single girl who walks through this train station. I have one of those memories, you see. I know them all. And I know which ones could use a job like that.”
Poornima was silent, and then she said, “Every one?”
“Not a single girl gets on or off any train in this station without me knowing. I remember their faces. I never forget their faces. Sometimes, I talk to the
m, just like I’m talking to you, and then they take the jobs and they always make a point to come and find me and thank me.”
“I’ve never seen any girl thanking you.”
He sighed loudly. And then he said, “Why would you? Sitting like a mole behind Higginbotham’s. Anyway, I have work to do. I can’t stand here and talk to you all day. Take the glass back when you’re done,” he said, referring to her teacup. He turned away, but not very convincingly. He started to walk down the platform.
“Wait,” Poornima yelled after him. He stopped a yard or two away from her, and she thought he might be smiling, but she couldn’t be sure. It was just a sense she had. Though why would he be smiling?
When he turned to look at her, his face was serious. He said, “What? I have things to do.”
“Every girl?”
“Yes. That’s what I said.”
“How long have you been here? At the train station?”
“Why?”
“Just curious.”
He thought for a moment. “Maybe three years. Four.”
Poornima felt a shiver go through her, and she thought, What if he did? What if he did see her? “Did you happen to see a girl, not quite two years ago? She would’ve been a little taller than me. And wearing a blue sari, patterned with peacocks. A beautiful smile. From Indravalli?”
Rishi considered for a long moment. His eyes began to spark. “What else?”
“She was thin, but not as thin as me. Straight hair, but with small ringlets at her forehead. Probably she was going north, too.”
“Did she have pretty lips? And did you say the sari was blue?”
Poornima’s eyes also lit up. “Yes! And her name was Savitha. Did you see her?”
“Savitha? Did you say Savitha?” Rishi smiled—a wide smile that plumped up his thin face, as if his cheeks had sprouted for just that smile. “Why didn’t you say so earlier? Of course I know Savitha.”