Looking For Bapu

by Anjali Banerjee

  He is looking at me. His mouth moves. Did he say Anu? I imagine I'm there, in India, the crowd parting to let me step forward. Now I'm so close, I could touch him. My fingers shake and my heart pounds.

  The sadhu reaches toward me, and I'm trapped in his gaze. He swats the camera—swats me—with the feather. He's blessing me with holiness, and a weight lifts from my shoulders as the camera shuts off.

  This is a sign.

  untie Biku's visit falls into a haze. Did she leave only yesterday? Did we take the boat out onto the Twin Rivers at twilight? Did she and Dad sing ancient, strange songs in Bengali, their voices rising and falling at exactly the same moments? Did Dad cry? Did Auntie Biku open the urn and send Bapu's ashes into the calm water, lapping and rippling in a soft lullaby? I can't imagine that I was ever there, reaching my hand out into the air, grasping for Bapu. I knew that when the ashes melted into the river, Bapu would not vanish. I still feel him at the edge of my mind, just around the corner.

  But he doesn't show up when Izzy and I traipse out into the woods. I'm carrying the Shiva statue. Shiva has 1,008 names, each for a different part of his personality. I'd hate to see his birth certificate. I bet Indian kids have to memorize his names, the way we have to memorize the state capitals. Lucky we have only fifty states.

  Shiva doesn't only destroy—he also creates new life. Bapu said one can't be separated from the other. Life from death, death from life. Where fire scorches the ground, new baby trees will grow.

  Shiva's favorite method of destruction is his inner spirit of fire blazing from his third, all-seeing eye. His left eye is the moon, his right eye is the sun, and the third eye sits smack in the middle of his forehead, making him look like an alien from the planet Gorgon.

  “I don't get why you want to become a holy boy,” Izzy says.

  “Boy-Baba,” I say. “I've been anointed.” I touch my cheek. I swear I can still feel the sadhu's feather brushing my skin.

  We drop birdseed and Izzy marks the trees with chalk so we can find our way back. In a clearing, we set up a shrine on top of a pillowcase, beneath the overhanging branches of a huge fir tree.

  “This will be our Shiva temple,” Izzy says, and helps me arrange the offerings around Shiva—apples and cooked rice and bits of leftover, stale sweets from the Indian bakery.

  I sit cross-legged in front of Shiva. Izzy sits beside me and plunks the shrunken head on the pillowcase.

  “Shiva doesn't eat heads!” I cry.

  “How do you know? Maybe he likes eating people too.” She straightens the hair on the shrunken head.

  “He doesn't! You ruined everything.” I snatch the head and throw it. Then I get up and stomp back through the woods.

  Izzy rushes to pick up the head and runs after me. “You're just angry because your Bapu isn't coming back, Anu.”

  The hollow pit opens inside me again. “You don't offer shrunken heads to Shiva!”

  “I'm sorry, Anu. I was just trying to help.”

  I stop and lean against a tree. “I know. I still need your help, but no shrunken heads, okay?”

  “Are you sure you know what you're doing?” Izzy follows me into my parents' room. “Shouldn't you be doing homework?”

  Jasmine perfume tints the air, and the puffy quilt lies crumpled in an unmade heap on the bed. I trip over Dad's huge shoes.

  “I'll do homework later,” I say. “This is more important. You have to get the back of my head.”

  “I don't know how to shave. My mom doesn't even shave her legs.”

  “I know, and she grows a bleached mustache too,” I say soberly. “I've never shaved either. I've watched my dad.”

  “Watching isn't the same as doing. I thought the sadhus let their hair grow long, anyway.”

  “First they give up their past lives. I have to give up my past hair.”

  Izzy stops in the middle of the room. “Does that mean you're giving me up too? Because if it does, I'm not sure I want to help.”

  “You can be part of my new life.”

  “Thanks. I'm so grateful.” She's grinning, but I stay serious.

  “You're welcome.” A curious feeling shimmers inside me, a sense of knowing that this is the right thing to do. The sadhu looked me in the eye. Soon I will have the ability to bring Bapu back.

  “Can your parents be part of your new life?” Izzy asks.

  “They have to be. I can't live outside.”

  “Why not? Didn't you say the sadhus live outside in India? The rolling man—doesn't he roll everywhere, rain or shine?”

  “He has disciples and people helping him. They move sharp objects out of the way. I don't have disciples.”

  “Still, you're cheating by staying inside.”

  “I'm working on it, Izzy. Give me time.”

  “What about your parents? What will they say when they see your shaved head?”

  I push the bathroom door and it squeaks open, revealing a blue sink, toilet and tub, like an aquarium with a skylight. I stand there with my hand against the door. I hadn't thought about what Ma and Dad would say. I can't worry about that now. My calling comes from a higher place. “They'll yell at me. I'll have to deal with it.”

  “What if they ground you?”

  “They've never done that.”

  “What if they spank you?”

  “My parents have never spanked me, not even once.”

  Izzy sticks out her bottom lip. “Mom spanked me when I stayed out after dark and she had to call the police. I was just digging for worms, so I think shaving your head qualifies for spanking.”

  “Shaving my head to become holy doesn't count.” Besides, all I care about is getting Bapu back. I've watched Dad shrivel from sadness. His Amma died a long time ago, and now Bapu. How will we live without him?

  I glance up at the skylight high above. For now, the bathroom is my temple. “Hurry up, Izzy. My parents will be home in half an hour.”

  “Okay! 'Cause Mom will notice we're gone before that.”

  I glance in the mirror. I don't look serene and wise. I look … scared.

  Izzy sits on the fuzzy toilet-seat cover. “This isn't a good idea. What if you cut yourself and bleed everywhere?”

  “It's an electric razor with a safety guard on it. Dad says it cuts a millimeter from the skin.”

  “So, now you're an expert.”

  I wonder if Izzy feels bad about not having a dad. She can't watch him shave. My dad shaves every day and drops a number into every conversation. A millimeter, a centimeter, or ninetythree million miles.

  I rummage in the cabinet. Where is the razor? I pull off the top of the deodorant bottle. The sharp scent nearly knocks me over. “Can you believe grown-ups spread this stuff on their armpits?”

  “To keep from stinking,” Izzy says. “When you grow up, you start to smell bad. You ripen, like cheese. If grown-ups didn't wear deodorant, we'd have to put clothespins on our noses. The whole world would reek. That's why I'm not looking forward to growing up.”

  “There's a kid in my class who already stinks. He could use some of this.” I finally find the razor and the shaving cream. “Here, you hold it.” I untangle the cord and plug it in.

  She holds the razor timidly. “What do I do with it?”

  “Press the On switch when I'm ready. First we have to lather my hair.”

  We lather shaving cream on my head. Then I switch on the razor and start shaving my hair in long strips, from my forehead back. The electric razor vibrates in my hand. Izzy lets out a crazy giggle every time a clump of hair hits the sink. My head tingles against the razor and starts to feel cold in the bare spots, where the skin is pale. Shaving is harder than I imagined. I keep missing spots and I have to go back over them, and even so my head looks like a field of wheat where the tractor driver was dizzy.

  Then Izzy runs the razor across the back of my head. She has a steady hand, and I feel the hair falling and falling, ghost breaths brushing the back of my neck while my old life as a regular boy falls away
.

  I look totally different. Like the captain on Star Trek. My eyes grow bigger and wiser. I'm a whole new person. A holy person.

  “Do you hear my mom calling?” Izzy says.

  “No! Just finish. Hurry!”

  forgot.

  How could I forget class pictures?

  They're on Monday. It's Friday, and I'm bald. Izzy couldn't have known. She never has to sit through class pictures.

  When Ma first came in and saw me, she screamed, although Izzy and I had flushed most of the hair down the toilet and used the thick plush towels to mop up the water. Ma wanted to know how we could trespass in her private bathroom, how we could make such a mess, and didn't we know we could have hurt ourselves? And whatever possessed me to shave all my beautiful black hair?

  Dad came in and looked around, blinking. I could practically hear the numbers grinding in his head while he tried to add it all up. Son + razor + crazy neighbor girl = no hair. Ms. Mumu was right behind them.

  “How could you do this, Anu?” Ma shouted.

  “There's nothing wrong with being bald!” I shot back. “Bapu was bald!”

  Ma gulped. “So this is about Bapu?” she asked in a quiet voice. “You wanted to be bald like him.”

  I couldn't answer. My eyes burned. Izzy stood there mesmerized.

  “Don't you know razors are sharp and dangerous?” Dad said.

  “You use your razor every day!” I shouted, not sounding very holy.

  “That's different. I'm a grown-up,” Dad said, and kneeled in front of me the way Bapu did. The hurt welled up in my chest again. Dad looked at me the way Bapu used to, with his eyebrows pulled together. “Tell me what's going on,” he said, but I couldn't speak.

  Now Ma, Dad, Ms. Mumu, Izzy and I are sitting in our good living room, where only guests sit on the stiff couches with cushions that don't bend beneath our butts. Ms. Mumu and Izzy sit across from the three of us, as if we're facing off at a duel.

  I, for one, am meditating, floating above the scene. I give up all worldly concerns—the stunned look on Dad's face, Ma's tight jaw. I know she's thinking of hiding every sharp object— scissors, knives, the pink lady razors she uses on her legs. Dad's probably wondering exactly how many hairs I flushed down the toilet. Two to the power of ten.

  Ms. Mumu's mouth plays at the edge of a frown. “I thought the kids were in the backyard. Izzy has a treehouse out there. I went outside and found them gone. They know they're not allowed in this house. But I suspected they'd come back here.”

  “Children must be monitored at all times,” Ma says.

  I close my eyes. I'm a holy boy—I have empathy. I feel the fear in her voice. She thought I would cut myself. She thinks I'm going crazy. She turns to me. “Do you want to tell us why you did this, sweetie?”

  “My head was hot.”

  “We could've taken you for a haircut.” She's not convinced.

  “I don't think they've done any harm,” Ms. Mumu says. “They were experimenting. Why, when Izzy was five, she cut off her bangs.”

  I raise my brows at Izzy. She cut off her bangs? She's even cooler than I thought. Her bangs grew back and now they form a straight line across her forehead.

  “Maybe you shouldn't have left the scissors lying around,” Ma says.

  “Hasn't Anu ever done anything naughty while you weren't looking?” Ms. Mumu asks.

  I drew pictures on my bedroom wall when I was three, but Ma doesn't mention that. She and Dad had to repaint my room.

  “My hair will grow back,” I say.

  “But that's not the point, is it?” Ma says.

  “You'll look fuzzy, like a Chia Pet,” Izzy says, and giggles. Ms. Mumu nudges her.

  “Your pictures are Monday,” Ma says. “What will I send to your relatives? To Auntie Biku?”

  “Send them a bald picture,” I say.

  “Anu!” Ma glares at Ms. Mumu. “How could you have allowed this to happen?”

  “My word!” Ms. Mumu presses a hand to her heaving chest.

  “Priti, it wasn't Martha's fault,” Dad cuts in. “She can't watch them every second, and she did go looking for them. We all trusted them to follow our rules.”

  Ma throws him an angry look and then brushes imaginary dust from her pants. “We should at least know where they are—”

  “Kids will be kids,” Dad says. “Wouldn't you rather they shave their heads than stare at the computer all day?”

  Izzy and I trade glances. We did spend a while on the Internet. We found www.shave-your-head.com, but it was for older people and punk rockers, not holy boys.

  “At least he didn't shave his eyebrows,” Izzy says.

  Ms. Mumu chuckles. “He looks quite good bald, don't you think? What about Captain Picard on Star Trek? Or Michael Jordan?”

  “You do realize he's got to go to school like that?” Ma says. “The kids will make fun of him.”

  I think of Curtis and the other kids. I don't care what they say.

  “Look, if you'd rather find another place for Anu to stay after school, I understand,” Ms. Mumu says.

  Dad shakes his head. “We know it wasn't your fault. We just wanted you to be aware. Anu misses his grandfather. The two were quite close.”

  How does Dad know anything about Bapu and me?

  “Of course,” Ms. Mumu says.

  “The thing is, not knowing why he's done it,” Ma says. “And why Izzy helped him. Worrisome, really.”

  “I think Izzy understands Anu, just a little,” Ms. Mumu says. “She was very young when she lost her father, but she misses having him around. Perhaps together, she and Anu wanted to pay tribute to lost loved ones.” Ms. Mumu gives me a caring look that makes me melt into the floor. No, not pay tribute. I'm the only one who can bring Bapu home.

  Izzy's gazing into her lap. Maybe she's trying not to cry. I bite my lip.

  Ma softens a little, and stands up. “I'm so sorry. Well, this was all just a bit of a shock….”

  “We appreciate your willingness to watch Anu after school,” Dad says. As they walk to the door, I wish the grown-ups would all shut up so I could get on with becoming a sadhu.

  After the Mumus leave, Ma lets out a long sigh and collapses into an armchair. “What do we do about you, Anu?”

  I didn't realize there was anything to be done.

  “Give him a wig,” Dad says, and sits on the couch with his hands behind his head.

  Ma lights up. “Not a bad idea, Rijoy.”

  “I was joking,” Dad says. “He looks fine hairless.”

  “What about the relatives?” Ma says. “I have a hundred people on my list to receive photos. I ordered extras. How will I explain?”

  “There's nothing to explain!” I cover my head with my hands. “And I'm not wearing a wig!” How will I become holy with fake hair? I'll look like Andy with the omelet on his head.

  My skull feels smooth. A newborn head. Nothing but skin and bone separates my enlightened brain from the world now.

  a Googles for the closest wig shop: www.wilsonswigs-for-all-reasons.com. For once, I wish my computer was broken.

  “Just over on Chico Road,” she says.

  “I'm not going. My hair will grow back. Then I'll let it grow out longer and longer and get tangled like the holy—”

  I cover my mouth.

  “Holy what?” Ma gives me a piercing look.

  “Holy smokes. Holy Toledo. Holy cow.”

  I pull on a woolen hat, which scratches my bald head, and the three of us climb into the car.

  Wilson's Wigs for All Reasons is at the end of a strip mall. Inside, it's like the Halloween shop. Blond wigs, long wigs, curly wigs, red wigs, brown wigs, even white wigs on Styrofoam heads. There's a bald boy with his mother on the other side of the store. He looks like an egg, a familiar egg. Andy! He waves at me and I wave back, then shove my hands in my pockets.

  The man behind the counter, with a nametag reading BERNIE, is obviously wearing one of the brown wigs, which has slipped sideways on
his head. He smiles and nods. “I'll be right with you folks.”

  Ma and Dad and I sit. Ma pulls off my hat, grabs a black shaggy wig and puts it on my head. I look like Elvis Presley. Dad and I laugh.

  In the mirror I catch a better glimpse of Andy.

  “He's gonna come out of this just fine,” Bernie says to Andy's mom.

  “The doctors say he's doing well. Right?” Andy's mother runs her hand over his head.

  Andy nods, but it seems to take all his effort.

  “That's the best we could ask for.” Bernie hands Andy's mother a box and says as they leave, “I sure do wish you folks the best.”

  I have an urge to run after Andy, to shake his hand and tell him everything will be okay, only I don't know if that's true.

  Ma and Dad glance at each other. I take off the fuzzy wig and try on another one, a black one with fine, straight hair.

  “I look like a girl,” I say, taking off the wig.

  “How can I help you folks?” Bernie comes over and glances at my head.

  “We need a wig until his hair grows back,” Ma says.

  Bernie measures my head all different ways. The tape measure feels cold against my skin. “I have just the right hair system for you, young man. Synthetic fibers. Less expensive than human hair, and the color won't fade.”

  “What about real hair?” Ma asks.

  I don't want to wear someone else's hair!

  Bernie drapes the tape measure around his neck. “We can custom-make one, ma'am. Takes a few weeks.”

  “We have two days!” Ma's voice rises.

  “Ma, I can go like this. Or not have my picture taken!”

  Dad stands. “It's okay. We don't need a wig.”

  “Wait—” Bernie says. “I have his size in Hair-for-Kids. You'll love it. Machine-made cap. Durable!” He disappears and comes back with a black wig. It's perfect. It could almost be my own hair.

  Ma and Dad appraise me. How will I become holy this way?

  “This will do,” Ma says.

  “Just let him go bald,” Dad says.

  “All our friends will think—” Ma hesitates. “He is not going bald. We're doing it.”