“Changed your mind about milk? Now let’s see how you like dosais.” She plops dough onto a pan so hot it sizzles.
Soon, I’m munching on a hot, crisp dosai that’s filled with fresh chutney made from ground-up coconut and coriander and chili, according to Patti.
“He’s got a good appetite,” Thatha says, looking up from the newspaper he’s reading, as I eat dosai after dosai.
“You’re the best cook ever!” I tell Patti.
After breakfast, Patti takes me shopping. Shopping is walking into shops and actually buying things they’ve got inside instead of just looking at them.
“My grandson needs some new outfits,” she tells the store owner. He pulls a few shirts and some shorts off a shelf and tosses them onto a glass counter.
“So, Kabir,” she asks me, “which do you like best?”
“They’re all good.” Not a single button missing or even loose.
“How nice, you’re not a bit choosy.” She buys me four new sets of clothes. And new slippers. She even gets me shoes, saying I have to get used to them before school starts. They look nice, but they make my feet feel trapped, probably like Rani feels when she’s stuck indoors.
“Aren’t you going to run out of money?” I ask. “I don’t need so many clothes.”
“This isn’t that much,” she says. “And sometimes it’s nice to have a bit more than you need. Is there anything else you’d like?”
“I want Amma to be free,” I reply. “Amma said my father was going to find a lawyer. Can’t you and Thatha do that? Please?”
“I wish your mother were free too.” Patti sighs. “But finding a lawyer to help when you don’t have enough money to pay them isn’t easy.”
Patti sounds as if she’s given up before she even started, and I’m not sure how to fight the hopelessness I hear in her voice.
“Now, anything else you want?” Patti says before I can respond. “Something that caught your eye?”
“A set of clothes for Rani,” I say at last.
“Who?” Patti’s forehead scrunches up.
“My friend,” I reply.
“Oh! Yes, I remember her. But . . . I’m sure she has enough at that school where she’s studying.”
“Sometimes,” I say, giving Patti her words back, “it’s nice to have a bit more than you need.”
Patti laughs, and then we buy a matching skirt and blouse for Rani.
Later, Patti teaches me how to use the phone to call Rani. We don’t know the phone number, but with Patti’s help, I search using the name of the school. It’s strange hearing Rani’s voice without seeing her, but it’s still nice. Even though the first question she asks me is hard.
“How are you? Have you spoken to your dad yet?” she asks.
“No. He’s . . . he’s . . . dead.”
“Oh, Kabir. I’m so sorry.” For a few minutes, she says nothing, but it’s comforting just knowing she’s there for me at the other end. Finally, she speaks. “I guess it’s one more thing we’ve got in common. You want to talk about it? Or something else?”
“Something else, please.” I remember she never wanted to talk to me about her dad’s death either.
“Okay, then. School? Are you at school yet?”
“No, because Thatha and Patti said the school where I’ll go is closed for the summer, so I have some time off before I need to start.” Time to get used to the outside a bit more, but I don’t say that. “How are you?”
“Viji Aunty let me sleep in a tent outside, and there’s a nice aunty who cooks the best food, and we can eat as much as we want, and one of the teachers gave me lessons under a banyan tree like the one in Chennai, except this one is bigger, and Jay loves it here too, and I made some friends already . . .”
She goes on and on nonstop. I love how happy and excited she sounds.
When I get off the phone, I look out the window and think of the God in the sky.
But I don’t ask for anything. I just say, “Thank you.”
60
Free
When I wake up in the morning, I feel freer—and safer—than ever before.
I’m free to sing as loud as I want, anytime I want.
Free to open the windows of my room to let in the outside breeze. Or to turn on the ceiling fan that makes a breeze inside just for me.
Free when the afternoon sun gets hot to take a nap on my soft bed for as long as I please.
Free to add as many ice cubes as I wish to a tall glass of water and listen to them clink as I swirl the glass around before I sip and drink, sip and drink, thinking how lucky I am my throat will never again feel dry as a dead leaf.
I’m free. But.
Amma is still in jail. And a big piece of my heart is locked up there with her.
61
Cousins
Amma and I can’t talk on the phone, but we do write each other letters. Amma must be terribly sad to hear that Appa’s dead, but she doesn’t say anything about that and her replies are short—partly because she can’t write too well—and she says she’s happy I’m safe, and I should live my life and not worry about her.
As if I could.
I’m rereading one of Amma’s replies to my letters when I hear a tapping on the front door.
“Can I open the door?” I jump up, and my grandparents laugh. It’s fun to open doors from the inside—and decide if we want to let someone in.
Our visitors are a woman and a boy who’s a lot taller than me. The woman greets my grandparents respectfully, and they welcome her and the boy in.
“This is Salma Aunty,” Patti says to me. “She’s your father’s cousin who lives on the other side of the city. And this is her son, Junaid, who’s just about your age. Isn’t it nice to have a new friend, Kabir?”
“But I don’t know him yet,” I say, looking at the boy.
“Don’t be rude,” Thatha says sternly, though I didn’t mean to be—all I was doing was telling the truth.
“You look exactly the same as your father when he was a little boy,” the Salma woman says. “Junaid couldn’t wait to meet you, Kabir.”
“Why don’t you boys go downstairs—fresh air is good for you.” Patti shoos us out. “Just go play for a bit and come back up when you feel tired.”
“Were you really born in jail?” Junaid asks as the door closes behind us.
“Yes.”
“You’re so skinny. Didn’t they feed you?”
“Not too well.”
“Did your mother rob someone?”
“No.”
“Kill someone?”
“No!”
“What did they lock her up in jail for, then?”
“Nothing.”
“I bet she did something really bad.” Junaid sounds eager to hear a juicy story, and I’m tempted to kick him.
When I don’t reply, he grunts. “Come on, Kabir, at least tell me what it was like in jail.”
Even if I wanted to explain, I’m not sure I could. Jail was awful and stinky and scary in a different way than living outside. But in spite of how hard it was, I sometimes wish I were back there, because I miss Amma so much. And in jail, I had Malli for a friend, who was so much younger but never asked questions as ignorant as Junaid’s.
I’m guessing Patti might not like it if I told Junaid to shut up. So I stomp ahead of him, down the stairs, and out of our apartment building.
In the field between our building and the next, a group of boys are playing with a bat and a small ball. Cricket. I’ve seen it on TV, and I’ve seen them playing it before from the windows upstairs.
“I’m a great batsman.” Junaid waves at them. “In fact, I’m so good that I might even play for India someday. Like Mohammad Azharuddin.”
He goes on and on about himself. Hearing Junaid brag is a lot better than his begging me to fe
ed him drama about my life. But it’s still not much fun.
I decide I don’t want to play a game I’ve never played before, with so many kids I don’t know. Kids who will probably have sillier questions than Junaid’s. I turn around and head back up the stairs as he runs off to join them.
“What’s wrong?” Patti asks when I knock on the door.
“You told me to come back when I was tired,” I remind her. “I’m tired of Junaid.”
Junaid’s mother sort of laughs. Thatha glares at me again.
“Feeling shy, maybe?” Patti asks. “Don’t you want to make nice new friends?”
“Junaid wasn’t nice,” I reply. “He thinks Amma did something bad. And I already have nice friends. Outside I have Rani, and in jail I have Malli.”
“Rani?” Thatha has forgotten her, just like Patti couldn’t remember who she was when we went shopping.
“The Roma girl,” Patti says.
“She’s got a name!” I shout, because I know it’s rude, and Patti and Thatha think I’m rude anyway. “Rani is my friend! She looked after me!”
I run into my room and slam the door and lock it from the inside and lie on my bed.
Laughter floats in through the window—maybe Junaid is out there telling the cricket boys something funny about me.
62
Not Perfect
Outside my room, I hear Patti and Thatha speaking in low voices. Probably discussing how to punish me. I wonder if they’ll hit me with a ruler. Mean Teacher liked to do that.
A soft knock sounds on my door.
“Kabir, please let us in.” Patti doesn’t sound angry. Just sad.
I feel a little bit bad that I upset her after all she’s done for me. I open the door partway.
“We’re sorry,” Patti says.
She sounds truly unhappy. The monsoon storm of rage that just burst out of me starts to weaken. I let the door swing all the way open.
“We know your friend—Rani—means a lot to you, and it was wrong of us to . . . to—to think of her as anything other than your friend,” Thatha mumbles.
They come in and sit on my bed with a space between them. A me-sized space.
“When I set eyes on you—no, even before that,” Patti says. “All those days we feared you were lost on the streets of Chennai, I promised myself that if we ever found you, I’d be the perfect grandmother. But I guess I’ll be making a lot of mistakes.”
“It’s a long time since we had a little boy.” Thatha rubs the worry lines cutting deep into his forehead. “We’ve forgotten a lot.”
“I’m not little,” I say, but I go to sit between them.
“You’re still young, Kabir,” Thatha says. “You’re a hero too. So brave. But you never had a chance to be a child until now.”
“Of course I’ve had a chance to be a child,” I tell him. “I’m doing it right now.”
Patti smiles, and then asks, “What happened with Junaid?”
“Junaid acted as if Amma was a terrible criminal. Like she killed someone.” I spit out the words. “But she never did anything wrong. Not a single thing.”
“Right,” Patti says.
“Sure,” Thatha agrees.
I peer at them, trying to tell if they’re lying for my sake or if they truly mean it.
“Trust us. Please,” Patti says. “We’re sure your mother is wonderful, Kabir, because of how wonderful you are. She raised you without any help, in jail, and look at you. Kind and thoughtful and polite.”
“Polite most of the time, anyway.” Thatha chuckles.
“If you believe Amma is innocent, why won’t you find a way to get her out?” I ask.
“We would, if only we had more money.” Thatha’s smile falls away. “Lawyers are so expensive. But we can start saving . . .” He sounds defeated already.
Saving would probably take forever, and I’m tired of waiting. Amma should never have been in jail, and she shouldn’t have to wait another minute. I need to make a plan.
Patti is still talking about Junaid. “I’ll speak with his mother,” she says. “I’m sure Junaid won’t act that way again, once she gives him a talking-to. Give him a chance, Kabir; he’s your cousin, after all. Maybe you’ll be friends one day. He just doesn’t know any better right now, poor fellow.”
Friends? With Junaid? I have a good imagination, but even I can’t imagine that.
Plus, there’s nothing poor about him. I’m the one who was in jail all my life.
63
At the Bazaar
Want to come to the market?” Patti asks after breakfast next morning. “You can choose what you want me to make for dinner tonight.”
The bazaar is the best place we’ve gone so far—a narrow street with fruits and vegetables and all sorts of other food stalls on either side. Vendors shouting in singsong voices to attract passersby, just the way Rani and I used to do.
Everyone at the market greets Patti as if she’s their own grandmother. She stops and talks and buys potatoes and carrots from a young woman who sits behind hills of vegetables. Then we walk over to a young man who has sacks filled with rice and all sorts of uncooked grains. Patti sifts bright orange lentils with her fingers before she buys some. Patti explains how a balance works while I watch the man pack the lentils for us.
When Patti sees me eye a fruit that’s bottle-green and bigger than my head, she says, “Haven’t you ever tasted watermelon?”
We walk right over, and the watermelon seller teaches me how to test if a watermelon’s ripe. “You knock on it and flick its skin. Hear how this one sounds hollow, but this doesn’t?”
I can’t tell the difference, but it doesn’t matter, because he chooses one.
“This,” he says, smacking his lips, “will taste so mmmm . . . good.”
“How much?” Patti asks.
“Free for you this time.” The watermelon seller ruffles my hair. “Nice to see your grandson visiting you after all these years.”
“He lives with us now,” Patti says. “Such a handsome, smart, polite boy—though we can’t take any credit for that. His mother raised him right.”
I smile all the way back to our apartment building. When we near it, I see some boys playing cricket.
“Your father was a very good batsman, you know. You want to play with them?” Patti suggests.
“Maybe another time. I need to help you carry the groceries now. And maybe I can help you cook?”
“Your father loved to help me cook too,” Patti tells me. “Not a lot of boys helped their mothers in the kitchen, but he always did things he enjoyed and didn’t worry about what others thought. He was never scared to try new things either—like moving to Chennai on his own, and then to Dubai. He used to say, ‘Fear is a lock, and courage is a key we hold in our hands.’ ”
When I hear Patti speak about my father, it’s as if she’s digging a big hole in my heart, but also filling up a hole in my mind.
It sort of hurts, but still, I love learning about him. And I want to know all I can, because it brings me as close to him as I’ll ever get.
64
Locks and Keys
After I help her make lunch, and we’re all full, Thatha heads off for a nap. Before Patti joins him, she asks, “Would you like to use my phone? You could call your friend again. Or find a game to play or something to watch or read, maybe?”
“Oh, yes, thanks.” I do want to search for something, though not a game or a book. And I have an idea. As soon as she disappears into her room, I punch the words lawyer and Bengaluru into the phone.
A few more minutes of work, and I find a long list with names, addresses, and phone numbers. I get a pencil and paper and copy a few phone numbers so I can get started.
Patti’s whistling snore joins Thatha’s low rumble. I walk onto the balcony, as far away from Patti and Thatha’s room as I can
get, and call the first number.
My voice is my strength. It doesn’t tremble. My fingers do. I’m glad the person at the other end can’t see me.
“Good afternoon,” I say in my politest voice. “I’m looking for a good lawyer.”
“Yes?” The person sounds annoyed already.
“My mother’s in jail for a crime she didn’t commit—”
The person hangs up. So what? There are lots of lawyers on my list!
I cross off the first number and try the second. And I don’t get very far. But I think of what Patti told me my dad used to say—Fear is a lock. Courage is a key.
On the third try, I do get a bit further. The man at the other end listens to my whole story, wishes me good luck finding a lawyer for free, and hangs up. I can’t tell if he’s being mean.
Then I hear Patti and Thatha waking up, so I stop and look at the boys playing cricket down below. Yelling and running and standing still, watching the ball speed toward the batsman as if nothing’s more important.
That night, before Patti lets me turn off the light, she says, “I saw the calls you made, Kabir.”
I didn’t know she could. But it’s not as if I did something wrong. So I don’t say sorry.
“You look so small for your age.” She pats my head. “But you’re so brave not to give up on trying to help your mother.”
Patti’s words are sweeter than golden laddus and airy soan papdi. Hearing her now makes me realize I’m starting to love my grandmother for real. Not just because I’m supposed to.
“Can I keep trying?” I ask. “There are so many lawyers in this city, Patti. I’m sure someone will help.”
“Fine. But I don’t want you getting your hopes up,” she warns. “And I don’t want you sitting indoors all day getting disappointed. I’ll let you use my phone for a little while each day if you promise me you’ll go out and play with the boys.”
Born Behind Bars Page 11