Looking For Bapu

by Anjali Banerjee

  “Yeah, why?”

  I stand up and head out to math class as the students rush in, damp and yelling after recess. “You're going to Izzy's? I thought you said homeschooled kids were weird.”

  “Yeah, but Izzy's cool. So, what do you say? Should I charge the homeschooled kids extra?”

  “No new prophecies. That's it. I'm finished.”

  “Aw, Anu!” He stands in the hall while I keep going. Unger and Izzy are getting together without me? Why didn't they invite me?

  andarpa, the ancient Hindu Cupid, has leaf-green skin and rides a parrot the size of a horse. Like the Western Cupid, Kandarpa carries a bow and arrow. The shaft of his bow is made of sugarcane, and his five flowertipped arrows are the five human senses. He flies around shooting arrows and dropping pulsing hearts into people's eyes so they fall gaga in love with each other, which is probably what happened to Unger and Izzy.

  I can't believe Unger's going over to her house. Why do I even care? Who wants to hang around with a funny-faced, skinny girl who wears beads and collects curiosities?

  Because Izzy's cool, that's why.

  It doesn't matter. I can't go to her house today. After she gave me my clothes back, Nurse Edmonds told me she'd called my ma, and now I'm waiting at school for her to pick me up. I can practically see her anger puffing down the road. She had to leave work early, something that has never happened in the history of the universe.

  Her Subaru pulls up into the guest parking lot, and I grab my backpack and race out through the rain to the car. My heart pounds.

  She keeps the engine running as I slide into the passenger seat and fasten the seat belt. The shoulder strap tightens across my neck. Ma's car has crumpled Kleenex tissues lying around, a pack of gum on the dashboard and a traveler's mug of coffee in the cup holder. Ma's wearing her white coat and tapping the steering wheel. Her fingernails have been bitten to the quick. I brace myself, but Ma touches my head. “Are you okay, Anu? Had quite a day, didn't you?”

  “Yeah, I'm fine.” I look at her face, watch for a trace of annoyance. Ma just looks tired. Dark rings smudge the skin beneath her eyes.

  She pulls out of the parking lot and drives home. I relax in the warmth of the car and watch my rolling route out the window. The yards and houses and grassy slopes look smaller from here. It takes so long to roll, and only a minute to race by in a car.

  “Do you want to tell me what's been going on, sweetie? I spoke to the principal and Nurse Edmonds.”

  “I'm sorry to make you leave work, Ma.”

  “It's okay. I had a short day anyway.”

  My jaw drops open. A short day? Ma?

  I stare at her profile. She comes from a whole other family, a family of straight noses and soft chins. Not hooked noses and jutting chins like Dad and Bapu.

  “What did Nurse Edmonds tell you?” I ask.

  “Everyone seems to know about you and Unger hatching another moneymaking scheme.”

  “I didn't keep any of the money.”

  “But you're rolling to school.” She glances at me as she turns the corner. We're almost home.

  “To be closer to Bapu.”

  “By rolling? I don't understand.”

  I can't tell her. I'll sound crazy. “Just stupid, I guess.”

  “Bapu's gone, Anu.”

  “Do you have to remind me? He's not gone! You and Dad want him to be gone. Getting rid of his Shiva statue. Cremating him and throwing his ashes in the river. Giving Auntie Biku his things to take back to India. What if he wants them here?”

  “I know you miss him. We still have some of Bapu's things. Perhaps when you grow up, you can take them with you.”

  “You didn't … give them all to Auntie?”

  Ma shakes her head. “They were lying all over the house, and seeing them was very painful for Dad.”

  “What about me? What about what I want?”

  Ma touches my cheek. “I wish I could make it easier. But … no more rolling, okay? And Ms. Mumu says you're not eating your lunch.”

  I don't answer.

  “I hear you're trying to become a holy man—”

  “Sadhu,” I blurt.

  Ma's fingers tighten on the steering wheel. “Sadhu. You have to take care of yourself, baby. You're growing. You have to eat. You'll become very sick if you don't eat.”

  “The sadhus grow too, and they don't get sick—”

  “You can make the decision about becoming a sadhu much later, when you're a grown-up.”

  “I'm moving closer to the gods.”

  Ma turns up our driveway, the gravel crackling beneath the tires. She presses the remote to open the garage door and parks inside, in the cold dimness.

  “You don't have to move closer to the gods, sweetie. You can just be a boy. Be Anu, yourself. That's who Bapu wanted you to be. He loved you, Anu.”

  “I am being myself. My new self.”

  “Why did you need a new self ?”

  I play with the ashtray, opening and closing it. “I don't know. I want to be holy like the boy-Baba.”

  “Your old self was just fine. You don't need to be a boyBaba. It's very important for you to be just a boy.”

  She doesn't understand. When I was just a boy, being myself, I couldn't run home fast enough through the woods to save Bapu. Holy men can do anything. They can fly, heal the sick, bring back the dead.

  I'm sorry I didn't pray regularly, Bapu. I can't hold my arm up in the air for years—I fall asleep. I can't fast—I keep getting hungry. I'm not a good holy roller either. I thought I was helping people by telling them good things about themselves, but I don't know everything about every person. I didn't know that Andy was getting better. I didn't know that Karnak had all the power.

  Look where I am. Sitting in Ma's car wearing once-poopy clothes.

  dream of the Mystery Museum. The lights dim as I step inside. Shrunken heads line the shelves, their sewn-shut eyes following me. The heads grow to the size of huge party balloons bouncing along, whispering to each other. Probably trying to figure out where their bodies went.

  I shiver from a phantom breeze and keep walking deeper into the museum. I try to ignore the skeletons dancing in the corners, wrinkled mummies sliding through the shadows. Fear clogs my throat, but I keep moving. A light glows in the back of the store. I step over headstones and swerve to avoid zombie arms pushing up through the graves.

  A man steps into the light. At first, he's just a shadow, but when he steps forward, he comes into focus. He's tall and wears a shiny red turban with a glittering diamond in front. His third eye, the magic eye. He's hairy like Mr. Singh in the airport. He pulls his handlebar mustache and motions me closer. His tunic and trousers shine gold, and his shoes curl up in the front, like boats.

  “You've come for your Bapu,” he says in a booming voice that seems to come from my blood.

  My heartbeat pounds in my ears. “Can you really bring him back?” Every moment rushes through my memory. Bapu spilling dhal on the stove, the smoke setting off the alarm. Bapu letting a bold chickadee land on his palm, taking me for long walks and teaching me about the gods. The glint in his eye when we hid from Ma and Dad. The time we drove to the beach by ourselves.

  “Of course I can bring him back.” Karnak winks. “I'm a magician. I can do anything.” He waves his wand, and then I wake up. How could I have woken up just before the magic moment? Darn, darn, darn. Bapu could have come back. I would have woken to find him here, in solid form, able to touch me and read to me and hold a spatula.

  It's just before dawn, and the first birds twitter in the shrubs outside. Bapu says everything happens for a reason. I dreamed about Karnak for a reason. Now I know what I have to do. I pick up the phone to call Izzy.

  'm not allowed to go to the Mystery Museum on my own,” Unger says.

  “Me either,” Izzy says.

  “But we have to go,” I say.

  We're in Izzy's room sitting cross-legged on the floor, in a circle, with two tiny rubber shrunken head
s in the middle. I'm not sure why Izzy put them there—maybe to keep an eye on us. She's practicing Midnight Smoke, a new curiosity. A puff of smoke rises when she snaps her fingers. She's getting really good at it.

  Izzy sighs. “I wish Karnak would help me pass the state test next month—”

  “Then you have to go,” Unger says. “Me, I'm asking for a million dollars.”

  “A million isn't that much anymore,” Izzy says.

  “It's enough for me. Start-up costs for my home business.”

  I don't want to ask what Unger has in mind for his next venture.

  “I don't have enough money saved for the ferry,” Izzy says.

  “We have cash from Anu's fortunes,” Unger says. “And I'll loan you the rest. I've been saving my allowance for the past three years.”

  “Thanks, Unger—I have a little allowance too.” I unfold the bus schedule. “We leave Saturday. We'll take the seven o'clock bus from here.” I point to the bus stop four blocks from my house. “We have to switch buses at Port North, and in Port West we can catch the ferry.” I take out the map and unfold it on the floor. I trace the highway route to the ferry.

  “Wow—that's a long way.” Unger takes off his glasses and cleans them, squinting at the map.

  “I've been way farther than that,” Izzy says.

  “By yourself ?” Unger asks.

  “Not exactly—”

  “See?”

  “Okay, enough,” I say. “We'll leave notes for our parents, so they don't worry and call the police. Nobody else can know. Are we agreed?”

  “Agreed,” they say in unison, but Izzy casts a suspicious glance at Unger. “I think we should seal it with a blood pact.”

  Unger sits on his hands. “No way am I pricking my finger.”

  My fingers tingle too. “We don't need to seal it, Izzy. We trust each other, don't we?” I glance around, hoping she doesn't find some weird curiosity to bleed us with.

  “Okay, then hands together,” she says, and Unger and I let out a sigh of relief. We put our hands together, one on top of the other.

  “In case of a change in plans—cell phones?” Unger waves his phone, and I take mine from my pocket.

  “I don't have a cell phone,” Izzy says, looking disappointed.

  “I'm sure everything will go fine.” I put the cell phone in my pocket. I can't tell my friends about the worry growing inside me. Karnak is my last hope.

  wake up at six, on schedule, but Ma and Dad are already up. I can hear them moving around and talking in the kitchen. What's going on? I flip open the cell phone and call Unger. He sounds wide awake. “My parents are up,” I say. “We have to abort. But we can't wait too long. Tomorrow?”

  Unger breathes hard into the phone, making a loud static sound. “Tomorrow, tomorrow … okay. Is there a bus?”

  I'm unfolding the schedule again. “Yes, but it doesn't come as often. Can you call Izzy?”

  “I'll take care of it.”

  We hang up just as Dad opens my door. “Rise and shine,” he says. “I have a surprise for you.”

  He's dressed in clothes I've never seen—a plaid shirt, khaki pants and a cap. “Have breakfast and get your binoculars. We're going bird-watching.”

  Bird-watching? Dad?

  And Ma made eggs that don't run! They sit in a fluffy pile in the center of my plate. There's freshly squeezed orange juice, toast and mango.

  “How would you like to go to the Nisquat Reserve?” Dad asks. “Lots of birds there, I hear.”

  The day is clear, no rain in the forecast. A tingle of anticipation runs through me. I'm not supposed to be thrilled about bird-watching with Dad. Not after the disastrous outing with Auntie Biku. Dad can't tell the difference between a robin and a Steller's jay, but he's finishing his food and he's got a book with him, Birds of the Northwest. He's shoving it into a huge backpack, and Ma made us lunch.

  I run to my room—float, really—and take my bird-watching gear from the closet. I bring my binoculars, and my poncho, just in case.

  “Have fun, okay?” Ma touches my stubbly head before Dad and I leave.

  I get to sit in the front seat.

  The car windows are like a fishbowl all around me as Dad drives south along the highway. We listen to the Rolling Stones, his favorite band, and sing along to “You Can't Always Get What You Want.” When we arrive at Nisquat, he parks in a huge lot and we stop at the visitor center for a map before heading off on the trail.

  Everyone here is into birds. Some people carry big, expensive binoculars. Dad and I set off down a long trail—over five miles all the way around—and right away, we see a gaggle of Canadian geese.

  “Look, there!” Dad points and lifts his binoculars. “Ducks in the pond.”

  I'm skipping and hopping along. “I never came here with Bapu.”

  “He didn't know about this place,” Dad says.

  “I wish he could've known.” I spot a hawk overhead, wings spread. “Maybe he could've seen an owl.”

  “I think the owls are hiding—too many people on the trail.” Dad stops at a clearing and points the binoculars west, toward the sea. “Look, there, it's a bald eagle.”

  A crowd gathers as we all train our binoculars on a huge eagle with a white head and black feathers.

  “The white head means he's over five years old,” Dad says.

  “How do you know?” We keep walking.

  “I've been reading the bird book.”

  I glance at him sidelong. Was Dad reading the bird book just for me? “Dad, do you believe in ghosts?”

  He looks at me and laughs. “Where did that come from?”

  I shrug. “Could someone who died come back? Maybe once or twice, in a dream? And then start to fade away?”

  Dad frowns. “I expect that maybe if someone came back, he might be afraid that someone else couldn't let him go. A loved one, perhaps.”

  “But what if he wants to come back and be with us?” I say before I realize what I'm saying.

  “How do you know the ghost is a he?”

  “Just … hypothetically.” I copy one of Dad's big words.

  “Hypothetically … anything is possible.”

  I blink at Dad, not sure if he's the dad I know, the dad stuck in numbers. Then he says, “What I mean is, in the new quantum physics, scientists now know that our minds play a huge role in what we see. The smallest units of matter have both wave and particle properties. When you're looking at them, they become real. They acquire particle properties. When you're not looking at them, they're waves of possibility and probability, in more than one place at a time.”

  “You mean a ghost can be everywhere, like a big wave, and when I see him, he's a real ghost?”

  “Are we talking about Bapu here?”

  “Maybe.”

  He's silent. We stand at the edge of a marsh and watch the ducks weave through the reeds.

  “Bapu's been hanging around you?” Dad asks.

  “Sometimes.” My voice is barely a whisper. “But not lately.”

  Dad takes my hand. “Come this way.” We walk along a narrow bridge across the marsh. There's a bench in the middle, above the water. We sit there, and it feels as though we're floating in the pond with the birds.

  “You know, maybe Bapu only stays because you want him to stay,” Dad says. His voice cracks.

  “How can he want to leave me?”

  Dad puts his arm around my shoulders. “He didn't want to leave, Anu. But he did. I still can't believe it myself. I miss him every day, every moment. I'm sorry—”

  “Sorry for what?”

  “I'm sorry I haven't been such a great father to you.” Dad throws a pebble into the pond. The water ripples out in bigger and bigger circles and then goes calm again.

  “You've been a good father, Dad.” A big lump comes into my throat, but I'm not going to cry. I grip Dad's hand, way too tight. I don't want to ever let go. He doesn't know what I keep seeing: I'm back in the woods, and Bapu falls in the dirt, and I'm run
ning and running and I don't know the way home. I didn't bring the phone. The branches hit me in the face—I'm too slow, and Bapu is slipping away.

  I have to talk to Karnak.

  prop the note on Ma's purse on the kitchen counter, where I know she will see it. Dad snores in their room, but Ma could come out any minute. I'm wearing my poncho, since the weather can change in a heartbeat, and I stuff a couple of bananas in the pockets. I creep out the front door, closing it softly.

  The cool morning nips at my face as I run down the driveway. I'm the last one to the bus stop. Dawn paints a strip of bright pink across the sky.

  “What took you so long?” Unger says. “The bus will be here in, like, a minute.” He's wearing a poofy parka and counting dollar bills.

  “Hey, Anu,” Izzy says. I've never seen her dressed for a journey. She's wearing purple tights, beaded boots and a long blue raincoat.

  The bus chugs around the corner, belching stinky exhaust, and grinds to a stop. The doors fold away from each other like cards. Izzy marches right up the rubber steps. I follow, Unger last with the money.

  I hold the railing, my heart pounding. We bump into each other as the bus leaves the curb and lurches down the road.

  “Morning, kids!” the bus driver says. “Where you off to?” He's a young man, heavy, with a stubbly chin, and he must have accidentally poured a whole bottle of aftershave on his face.

  “Port West,” Izzy says.

  “Great day for a ride, huh? No parents with you this beautiful Sunday morning?”

  “We're on a field trip,” Unger says.

  “I'm babysitting the boys,” Izzy says, standing to her full height.

  “Oh yeah?” I feel the driver watching us in the mirror as we head toward the back, holding on to the seats as we go. The word kids brands us. Izzy gives me a wide-eyed look, and we sit near the window, the three of us hunched together. “That was close,” she says.

  “Babysitting?” Unger frowns, takes off his glasses and wipes them on his jacket, which makes them even more smudged. “We don't need babysitting.”

  “Would you rather get sent home?” Izzy snaps.