by Lynne Kelly
I’m happy to have the work. It keeps my mind off my loneliness. Raj has been following me around more than ever, like he knows we have only each other. He even sleeps in the house with me now. I think Amma would say it’s all right.
Each morning at sunrise I cross the courtyard to Amar’s hut. After I untie the camel from her post, I lead her around while she grazes on the plants. At night I join my neighbors for dinner, then return to Amar’s home to clean up after the camel and give her an evening walk. At first I tried to pet her, but now I stand as far away from her as I can. She’s surprised me too many times by biting me or licking my face. I’ve learned to jump out of the way, but I still cannot avoid her spitting.
When I ask Amar the camel’s name, he tells me she doesn’t have one.
“I’ll call her Moti,” I say.
“You like the name Moti?” he asks.
“No. I have a cousin named Moti. He’s mean and he smells bad.”
“Good name,” Amar says.
Moti licks my cheek. I storm off to wash my face.
At the week’s end I can hardly sleep, thinking about what I’ll say to Amma when I see her.
We leave before sunrise. Amar wants to make sure he has plenty of time during the shopping day to sell Moti.
I help load food and jars of water into a basket on Moti’s back, then we begin our journey to the market. Raj stands in the road barking as we leave, but he doesn’t follow. He hasn’t liked Moti ever since she stepped on him when he got too close.
Amar and I take turns riding Moti and pedaling the rickshaw. Between the bouncing ride on the camel and the pedaling, everything on my body aches by the time we reach the city.
When we find our way to Raju Sharma’s house, I stand at the end of a long driveway and look up. I wonder what it’s made of. The walls are whiter than any sand I’ve ever seen. Many people must have worked for a long time to build this house that seems bigger than my whole village.
“This is all one house?” I ask.
“Yes, Sharmaji is a rich man.”
“He must have a big family.” I start to walk up the driveway.
Amar grabs my shoulder. “Come, I’ll take you to the back door.”
We circle the house, Amar walking with the rickshaw while I lead Moti. The yard we enter has shrubs with tops so even and flat they could be used as tables. Some of the bushes have been cut to look like huge birds. A square pool of water, larger than four huts from my village, fills the center of the yard. I step closer. The water is deep, but I can see right through it to the bottom.
“I didn’t know water could be that clear.”
Then I see Amma.
She stands under a papaya tree. One arm encircles a basket, and her other hand clutches a papaya she’s picked off a branch. I’ve lived without her for two weeks, but it seems longer now. I want to grab her hand and run back home with her, where she belongs.
“Hastin?” she says. I hand Moti’s rope to Amar and run toward my mother, then stop. It looks like she’s trying to make herself smile. This isn’t the whole-face smile she always gets when she sees me. All this time, I thought she must be missing me as much as I’ve missed her, but now I’m wondering if I’ve done something wrong.
She glances up at the house, then drops the papaya into the basket and sets it down. Amar waits behind with Moti while I hurry across the yard to hug Amma. My stomach knots with worry when I notice blue-black skin around her left eye. In the short time since I’ve seen her, she looks smaller somehow, so I’m careful not to squeeze her too hard.
“I’ve missed you so much!” She steps back to look at me and combs my hair with her hand.
“I missed you, too, Amma.”
“But why—you came all this way—is everything all right?” She looks from me to Amar.
“Yes, everything is fine. I just wanted to see you.” I tell her about helping Amar with Moti. “But I don’t think anyone will buy her,” I say. “She bites.” I show her my arm. Amma laughs and kisses the bite marks Moti has given me.
“Amma, what happened to your eye?” When I reach out, she straightens and backs up a step before I can touch her face.
She raises her hand to the bruise. “Oh, that, it’s nothing,” she says. “Silly me, I walked into a door!”
Something isn’t right. Amma is talking much faster than she usually does, as if to keep me from figuring out what’s wrong. I feel the kind of worry I get when I first notice the change in the air that warns of a coming storm. My hand reaches into my pocket to hold Baba’s stone.
She points to the house. “It is beautiful, isn’t it?”
An earsplitting voice interrupts our conversation.
“Get that beast out of our yard!” Two children, a girl about my age and an older boy, stand near the back door of the house. I look to see what the girl is yelling about. Moti is nibbling on the head of one of the bird-shaped bushes as Amar tries to pull her away. I hurry toward them, then stop when a large stone flies across my path and hits the camel on the side of her head. The children laugh, then run into the house after the boy brushes dirt off of his hands.
I rush to Amar’s side. “Is she all right?” I ask. My mother follows close behind me. As much as I dislike Moti, I don’t want her to get hurt. How is she to know not to eat animal-shaped plants?
Amar struggles with the rope while Moti tries to break free. With one hand I grab the rope to help Amar, and with the other I pet Moti under the neck. The roughness of the rope sliding through my clutched fist burns my hand. Moti calms down and stops fighting. Before I can jump out of the way, she licks my face.
“Why does she have to do that?” I wipe off the camel slobber with my shirt.
“I should take her to the marketplace now,” Amar says to my mother.
“Yes, please do.” She looks toward the house, then back to Amar.
“I can stay with Hastin for a short time, then he can drive the rickshaw to the market and meet you there,” Amma says. “Thank you so much for bringing him with you. I’ll have more time to talk to Hastin if you come back tonight.”
My legs are so worn out from our trip I feel like they’ll fall off if I try to pedal again, but I do not argue. Amar tells me how to find the marketplace, then leads Moti away.
I look from one end of the house to the other. Gold and red curtains hang behind glass windows. I start to count them but lose my place.
“Which room is yours?” I ask.
“Oh, I don’t live in the big house, I just work there.” With a glance over her shoulder, Amma takes my hand and leads me farther into the yard. “I have to get back to work soon, but I’ll show you where I live.”
“How is Chanda?” I ask as we walk. “Can I see her? Will she come home soon?”
We take only a few steps before Amma answers, but the silence stretches out long enough to scare me.
“Not yet,” she says. “She’s not well enough to have visitors or leave the hospital.”
“But is she getting better?”
We stop in front of a small shack. Amma sighs and squeezes my hand. “The doctors are hopeful.”
The peeling paint that clings to the walls shows that the shack must have been white a long time ago. Amma turns the knob and pushes her shoulder against the door to open it. Insects scatter when the sunlight hits the floor.
“This is smaller than our hut,” I say when we step inside.
“Yes, but it’s only me. This is big enough for one person.”
“How many people live in that big house? Don’t they have room for you there?”
“Yes, of course they have room—there is only Sharmaji and his wife and their two children. But servants don’t live in the house with the family. It’s fine, really.”
A blanket on the dirt floor is her bed. One of her saris soaks in a bucket of water.
This is all wrong. I thought Amma would be okay here, that this place would be nicer than our home. I was worried about how Chanda and I would get along wi
thout her. I didn’t think about how she would get along without us.
“It’s so hot in here,” I say. Our own home has open windows to let the desert wind blow through. Here, the one window is covered with murky glass. “Can you open the window?”
“No, it’s stuck. It’s not so bad, though.” She starts to speak again, then drops to the ground and covers her face. I sit across from her and take her hands into mine.
“I’m going to get you out of here,” I say.
Her fingertips brush the side of my face, a soft touch with a rough hand. “I have to pay back Sharmaji.”
“I’ll find a way to help pay him back so you can come home sooner. I don’t want you working for these people.”
Amma looks away and stares at the ground. A shrill voice pierces the silence.
“Where is that servant girl? What happened to my swan?”
“Does everyone in this family talk that way?” I ask.
Amma jumps up and smooths out her sari. “Sharmaji’s wife. I must go. You’ll come by again tonight before you go back to the village?”
“Of course.” I stand up. “But I mean it, Amma. I’ll find a way to get you back home.”
She kisses my forehead. “Don’t be silly, Hastin. I will see you tonight.” She rushes out the door and grabs the papaya basket on her way to the house.
I stand on tiptoe to peek through the window. When Amma reaches the door, Raju’s wife grabs her arm and yanks her into the house.
Amma cannot live like this. With trembling hands I close the door to Amma’s shack and run toward the road that leads to the marketplace.
4
An orphaned elephant will try to find a new herd, but will sometimes be rejected.
—From Care of Jungle Elephants by Tin San Bo
Walking hurts less than pedaling now, so I leave the rickshaw at Raju Sharma’s house to pick up later. It would have been wise to take a water jar from Moti’s back before Amar left, but I don’t think of this until I walk a few blocks in the dry heat.
When I finally turn the corner to the marketplace, I stop and look up and down the road. Shop after shop lines each side of the street as far as I can see. Some vendors have stores, and others sell their items outside from tables or booths or blankets on the ground. Baba let me come here with him once, and we found a spot on the road to sit and sell his carvings. The market seems so much bigger as I stand here alone. Finding Amar in this crowd will be harder than I thought. But certainly I will find a job here.
Some of the men who are shopping wear wrapped turbans, while some wear head coverings that hang long and straight. Other people wear clothes like I’ve never seen and have skin so pale they look like ghosts in the crowds of shoppers. Gray-white cattle roam the side streets or rest in the shade.
Cloth and saris of colors I have never imagined hang on lines and fill the shelves of an outdoor shop. Amma’s clothes would look faded and rough next to these. Maybe I can get a job folding material and helping customers. I reach out to touch the silky fabric of a sari, then flinch and step back when the woman who runs the shop yells and smacks my hand.
The next place has tables full of metal bowls that hold spices like cinnamon and turmeric. A woman uses a mortar and pestle to grind spices in a small bowl. The heat of chili powder fills my nose.
Rows of brightly painted carvings at a wood-carver’s booth catch my eye. Large and small carvings of Ganesh and other gods, and animals—elephants, tigers, and camels—sit in rows on a table. The largest carvings stand face-to-face with me, while the smallest are the size of my thumb. I pick up a tiny carved elephant, painted yellow. Its wood is smooth, but I rub a spot that should have been sanded more. And perhaps the trunk needs more detail …
I almost drop it when I notice the old wood-carver behind the table looking at me. For a moment I worry I spoke out loud, but the man smiles and hands me a wooden box that fits in the palm of my hand. A row of elephants marches around the sides of the box, and one large elephant covers the lid.
“Open it,” says the wood-carver. “See what’s inside.”
I lift the lid and peek into the box. It’s filled with wooden elephants, each about the size of my smallest fingernail. I cannot imagine how long it must have taken to carve each one. Holding the box close to the table, I pour them out, then line them up in a long row, trunk to tail. When I feel a gust of wind I cup my hands around the elephants to protect them.
The elephant box would be a good gift for Chanda. I imagine seeing her smile when I hand it to her.
I scoop up the elephants to put them back. Not being able to afford a gift for Chanda makes me feel as small as the elephants in my hand. Each one drops into the box with a quiet plink.
“You are a fine wood-carver.” I hand the box back to the man. But not as good as Baba. “My father was a wood-carver, too.”
The man smiles but says nothing while he arranges carvings on the table.
“I used to help him,” I add. “He was teaching me. He said I was a fast learner.” I wander to the next table. The colors are pretty and the figures well painted, but I like the natural wood of the carvings Baba made. The elephants he carved were so lifelike, I could imagine them trumpeting and stamping through the jungle.
“Maybe you could use a helper.” I pretend to take interest in a bright orange carving of a tiger and hold my breath while I wait for a response.
“My sons work for me. I have all the help I need. They are almost as good as I am.”
Before he can see my disappointment, I step back and melt into the crowd of shoppers.
As I wind my way through the mob, I see jewelry stores full of gold and silver bracelets and shops where women and girls my own age sit on the ground and weave baskets.
At each place I try to convince the shop owner what a wonderful puppet maker, floor sweeper, or goat milker I would be.
“No, go away. I don’t need a helper.”
“Our whole family works here in our shop.”
“I wouldn’t be able to pay you.”
Many vendors wave me away and say nothing.
The sky turns pink and orange as the sun begins to drop. Everyone will leave here before dark. I want to grab the setting sun and push it higher into the sky so I will have more time.
I rush from shop to shop now, the colors and smells and sounds of the marketplace all blending together. I don’t even know what jobs I’m asking for anymore, since I’ve stopped looking at the items on the tables. I look only into the faces of the vendors, hoping this will be the one who will help me make everything all right again. I want them to see my face, too, to see how important this is, how desperate I am to work. But no one looks at my face.
At the end of the marketplace, I stop to catch my breath. The scent of mustard oil pulls me toward a samosa shop. The woman at the counter drops a potato mixture onto pieces of dough, then folds them into triangular packages. When she makes enough to fill a tray, she hands it to her husband. With a slotted spoon, the man lowers the samosas into a black pot, heated by a flame that burns underneath. My mouth waters as the samosas tumble and bump into one another in the sea of bubbling oil. When they are fried golden brown, he removes them with the spoon and places them into paper-lined baskets.
“You like samosas?” the woman asks me.
“Yes, I do.”
“Ten rupees.”
My hands search my pockets as if some long-forgotten coin will suddenly appear. I start to mention what a good cook I am but can’t bear the thought of being turned down again. Then I think of my mother—her black eye, the shack, the screaming family.
“I can help you sell your samosas,” I say to the woman as she folds the dough. “I’ll take baskets of them around the marketplace, then bring the money back to you.”
The woman laughs. “I cannot send our food into the marketplace with a boy I don’t know.”
“Then I can help you make more,” I suggest. “It looks like you are very busy. You don’t have to pay me
at first. You’ll see what a good worker I am before you hire me.”
“Don’t you see this small space we have here?” she snaps. “We are bumping into each other as it is.” She turns back to her work.
With nowhere else to go, I sit on the ground nearby and rest against the wall. I look back at the shops that make up the marketplace. The vendors are packing up their things for the day. Some carry boxes up a flight of stairs to their homes above their shops.
I turn toward the sound of clinking glasses. A boy who looks a little younger than I am strides by. The wire basket he carries has eight spaces for holding tea glasses. He seems to be in a hurry, yet hardly anything spills from the two glasses that are still full. The man and woman at the samosa booth greet him with a smile. He hands them each a glass of tea. My eyes follow the coins that pass from the samosa vendor’s hand to the boy’s, then to his pocket. The man hands him two more coins, which the boy puts into his other pocket. He chats with them as they drink their tea, then they hand him the empty glasses.
He hurries away with his tea rack and turns down a nearby side street. I jump up to follow him.
5
An elephant can be coaxed with words better than with physical force.
—From Care of Jungle Elephants by Tin San Bo
Down the streets of the marketplace I follow the tea boy. I pass a group of children and watch them break a piece of roti into small pieces to share. When I look up, I’ve lost sight of the boy. I hurry down the street and stop to catch my breath when I reach the corner. To my right, nothing but cows and a few shoppers and vendors leaving for home. I scan the thinning crowd, then run down the road to my left—and smack into the back of the tea boy.
He curses as he topples forward. I stand frozen in place and watch him fall. With both hands he clutches his rack of empty glasses and holds it out in front of him. The glasses clink and rattle against the metal rack. Clouds of dust puff up when he lands with a thud and an ooof, stomach-first onto the ground. Both of us look at the tea rack, and I sigh with relief when I see the undamaged glasses.