by Amita Trasi
“Thanks.”
The girl nodded but didn’t smile. I walked down the three floors with the list in my hand. It had the names of seven NGO’s Papa used to work with. How many children had Papa placed in good homes in his lifetime? How many children had lived with us during that time? Honestly, I didn’t even remember all their names now. There was Abdul, the sweet five-year-old who peed in every corner of the house while my Aai cleaned up after him. There was Shobha, the eleven-year-old girl who chewed chocolates and spit them on the floor, and there was that beggar boy with matted hair Papa brought home—the one who stunk like garbage. Aai had been so scared I would catch lice from him that she had run after me for weeks to rub my hair with coconut oil. I smiled at the memory now.
A taxi screeched in front of me. The driver lowered the window and looked at me expectantly. I gave him the address of the first NGO on the list. Perhaps Mukta’s name would be buried in some file . . . I hoped.
I wonder if every girl yearns for her father’s love, almost like waiting to catch the moon hiding in the trees—beautiful, yet so eternally elusive.
-MUKTA
Four
After Amma told me we would telephone my father, the hum of thoughts in my head was like the buzz of honeybees—unsteady, unsettling. A ripple of excitement ran through me when I thought about hearing my father’s voice for the first time. I hoped his voice would be gentle, the way I had imagined. I wondered if he would like my voice. But most of all, I worried about what I would say to him after the customary greetings. I thought of different things and rehearsed them like a mynah over the next few days. “My name is Mukta,” I would begin. But it sounded foolish because he would already know my name. So I thought of saying, “How are you? How is Bombay?” but that was stupid too. I struck down sentence after sentence, thought after thought, until finally I decided to tell him what I really felt, “I miss you Appa.” Appa—that was what I would call him.
I didn’t know what the telephone was; I had never seen it. Amma said she had seen it in the village but never used it. She described it as some sort of magical instrument that spoke to us in the voice of the person we wanted to speak to. It was a miracle, she said. I imagined a tiny person inside this box, no bigger than the box I hid stray cats in. This tiny person must be the one who had this magical power to be able to talk to both ends.
We left early in the morning on a sunny day before Sakubai woke up, before she had a chance to find out and question us. It was such a bright day. The sun peeked out from behind the clouds, and happiness danced on Amma’s face, lingering in her smile. I couldn’t have imagined our day to be any more different than it turned out. Before we left, I agonized over the dress I was going to wear, finally choosing a yellow skirt and blouse, then fussed over the way Amma fixed my hair, even took a bath longer than usual until Amma shouted, “Your father is not going to be able to see you through the telephone.”
I didn’t know that. I told her I thought it was important to feel good so my father could hear that in my voice. Amma rolled her eyes at me.
On our way to the village I skipped behind Amma, raking up a mild flurry of dust that blew from the narrow road we walked on, a lonely stretch with only the occasional bullock cart passing us or a couple of tractors rumbling past us on their way to the farms. A few weary laborers passed by, too tired to notice us. I remember this walk with my mother, how a gentle breeze raced across the tall trees that lined the road, causing the grass amidst the trees to flicker slightly—how the birds chirped along the way as we walked and most of all, the happiness that bloomed in my heart even though my feet were soiled and hurting.
I remember there was a banyan tree standing in the middle of the village square, its aerial roots spread around it. Not far from there was the bazaar where women cheerfully bargained with shopkeepers who squatted on the floor with their weighing scales. At the grocer’s shop there was a long queue to use the telephone. It was a hot day, and we joined the queue, waiting our turn, the sun gleaming down on us. The telephone was placed on a stool. When it was our turn, Amma picked it up but didn’t know to use it and fumbled with it. The grocer sighed, took the chit from her hands, and dialed the number.
“Tell Sahib I helped.” His tone was suddenly polite and gentle. I could tell from his reaction that my father was someone important in this village.
“It’s me. It’s me,” Amma said, her eyes joyful, her lips spreading into a smile. I couldn’t hear the voice on the other end. Amma held the earpiece in her trembling hands. The square black box with a round dial, sitting on the stool, looked interesting to me.
“Mukta is here if you want to speak to your child.” There was a hint of moisture in her eyes as he spoke.
Many feelings floated in me: an ache for the father I never knew, the thrill of hearing his voice, but mostly, a sudden feeling of safety that overcame me. And I spread my hands waiting for Amma to place the earpiece in my hands, but she didn’t. She continued listening, a frown spreading on her face.
“But, but . . . she is your child. You have to trust me. She is your child.”
She listened again, then stuttered, “She . . . she isn’t . . . safe here.”
Then as if there was no more that she could listen to or say, she held the earpiece to her bosom, as if she were holding a baby in her arms, and looked wistfully in the distance. I could hear the distant flat dial tone echoing through the earpiece. We should have known it was the sound of rejection, the sound of being cast off. But Amma, she wouldn’t let go.
“He will come to get you . . . ” she kept muttering as we walked back home that evening.
Then, just a few days after we had tried to telephone him, I almost met my father—a moment that I replay again and again in my mind. It was Sakubai who brought the news, who stood outside our window, grinning, and bellowing, “There is a party in the next few days—the zamindar is throwing a party for the upper castes from the next village. The zamindar’s son is coming from Bombay. Mukta’s father is coming!”
Amma ran outside, holding the sides of her skirt. “I knew it. I knew it. He will come here to this house.” She hugged Sakubai.
This time we should have known better, but hope always outweighs reason. On the evening my father was supposed to arrive from Bombay, our house looked like the house in one of Sakubai’s pictures. It wasn’t painted of course, and the cracks still remained, and the roof still leaked, but there were many flowers Amma bought in the village—lilies, jasmines, sunflowers, roses. Their colors surrounded the house, filling it with their fragrance. There were diyas everywhere, the cotton wicks in them burning brightly, keeping the house aglow in its yellow light. She washed my hair and scented it with a special perfume. I wore the green dress Amma had bought especially for the occasion. Amma drew her own hair in a big bun and wound clumps of gajra on her hair. When we were ready we waited on the steps outside, looking at the desolate street that led up to our house. The sun loomed large on the horizon, threatening to descend behind the mountains, while we waited and watched. With every passing minute, the light grew dimmer and dimmer and the darkness spread around us. The flames in the diyas outside the house danced in the dark, their shadows on the walls, as if mocking us. Soon, the moonlight was here to wash over our hopes.
Sakubai sauntered outside holding her aching hip and lowered herself gently on the steps.
“I told you, daughter, I told you,” she whispered.
Amma wasn’t listening. Her eyes were locked in the distance.
“Let’s go,” Amma said, standing up. There was a determination on her face, a sudden strength in her voice.
“Get up.” She pulled me up by the wrists, dragging me behind her.
“Where are you going?” Sakubai asked.
“The zamindar’s mansion.”
The moon led our way. Our bare feet were grimy; dust clung to the hem of our new skirts. The village was silent this time of the night. We walked, not thinking about anything. We stopped only when we re
ached the zamindar’s house. It was then I realized my wrist hurt from Amma’s tight grip.
“This is where your father lives . . . lived until he decided to leave us and go away to Bombay,” she said, looking accusingly at the house in front of us.
The house was huge, its roof peeping over brick walls so high I could not see what lay beyond those walls. It gleamed from beautiful yellow lights that spilled outside; the music playing inside the house and the sound of the dancers’ anklets floated outside. I had never seen this house, the one where the zamindar lived, the one where my father was brought up and lived for many years.
Amma walked towards the house; I followed. Two hefty men stood outside the gates in uniform, holding lathis in their hand, looking vigilant. Behind them, the gates were decorated with marigolds and jasmines, ready to welcome guests.
“Go away before Sahib comes outside and shouts at us for allowing a lower caste whore to come close to his property,” one of the guards shouted.
“I won’t go until I meet Sahib,”Amma insisted.
They stared at us, then looked at each other and burst into laughter.
“Yes, yes, Sahib will come running outside because you called.” They laughed even louder.
“I will not go. You cannot make me go.”
The guard shrugged. “Wait then.”
“If you want to wait, you cannot come within ten feet of the door,” the other guard said. He pointed to a place below the banyan tree. “Go there; sit down there if you want.”
We sat under the banyan tree, hiding in its shadow, carefully protected from the eyes of the upper caste visitors who arrived one by one in their cars. We watched the women who arrived outside the zamindar’s house—how the gold around their neck glittered, and the borders on their silk saris sparkled, their pallus swaying in the breeze. I saw how every time a man stepped out of his car, looking dignified in a crisp kurta, Amma’s eyes would scan his face for the man she loved. The music grew louder every time the guards opened the gates to let visitors in and dimmed as the gates closed behind them.
Amma allowed me to climb the tree to watch the feast inside. I had never seen a celebration of this kind, with so much extravagance. The courtyard was bigger than any I had ever seen; five houses like ours could easily fit in it. People were mingling, laughing and chatting, their faces, their jewelry, shining under the bright yellow lights. I wondered if the light shining on their faces was the wisdom of knowing a world people like us would never know.
Even from this distance, I could see the long tables in the courtyard, the white tablecloths spread over them, silver vessels that held the pickles and the chutneys, the rotis and rice, different vegetables, curries. Men talked at one end with serious expressions on their faces, smiling now and then, while women gathered in the corner whispering and giggling. There were many servants pandering to their demands, some serving water and sherbet, some carrying plates of kachoris.
After some time, visitors no longer arrived at the gates. I got tired, climbed down, and sat beside Amma. We sat silently amidst the night sounds and the music wafting from the house. We could hear the guards outside the gates, smoking their hukkas and drinking daru, telling tales of their family and laughing over their kids’ pranks.
Amma said this was how it had been when she had first met my father. She had been invited to dance at a party the zamindar had thrown for his son—my father.
“He took an interest in me. We would sit under this tree where no one could see us.” She giggled. “When your grandparents were away attending a party in the neighboring village, we would meet on the terrace, talk about our lives, little things, even about the stars in the sky.”
I couldn’t fathom that Amma had actually entered this mansion. It seemed such a far away thought, so beyond anything I could dream of.
“I was barely sixteen then; he was twenty, about to go to college in Bombay.” She looked at the sky wistfully.
“Your Appa was fond of pointing out the stars to me. The stars, they make their own pictures in the sky, he used to say. Did you know? When we die, we become stars in the sky so we can watch over the ones we love.”
I watched the stars that night. Someday, I hoped my father would show me the stars in the sky the way he had shown them to Amma.
“I think our life is like the sky,” Amma sighed, as she still looked at the sky, “sometimes Mukta . . . when you look at the sky it will be dark. You will not know who to rely on. You will wonder if anyone will be able to get you out of that darkness. But believe me, someday our sky will be bright again. And it will look and smell full of hope. I don’t want you to forget that. I want you to hope, not give up.”
I nodded. I told her I’d remember that.
We must have fallen asleep under that banyan tree because when we woke up sunshine had already begun pouring behind the trees. There wasn’t any music coming from the house anymore, and the gates were wide open, the guards fast asleep on the side. Beside me, Amma was sleeping soundly. I saw a man leave the mansion, saunter past the sleeping security guards, and walk up to the car waiting for him outside the gates.
I walked slowly towards the mansion and looked at this man as if I already knew him. I could hardly see his face, but I could see from the way he carried himself, the way his clothes were ironed crisp, that he must have been someone important. I remember how worried I became about my disheveled look—my skirt was torn in places from climbing up the tree, my plait had come undone. Then, something strange happened. I started running towards the man. I don’t know what I was thinking when I called out, “Appa!”
The man turned to look, squinted through the sunlight.
“Appa,” I yelled again, even louder, as I stopped a few furlongs away.
I still couldn’t see his face very clearly; the sun was too bright and on my face. But I could feel him watching me, hesitating, thinking about it. He took a step towards me, then turned, sat in the backseat of his car, and sped away. I ran after the car, waving, screaming for it to stop but it was too fast for me. I watched the car disappear around the corner, leaving behind a cloud of dust.
When I told Amma later, she said it couldn’t have been my father, that my father was a very righteous man who could never leave us behind. But I knew better. When I ran behind the car, the man had looked behind briefly as if he was sorry he had to leave me behind. And I knew then, I knew as the dust that the car left behind blew on my face, that my father did not want me, that he would never come to get me. Sakubai had been right all along; I did not deserve a father.
My Papa’s extraordinary thoughts wash over my childhood memories in waves, come and go, and I often think of him, the lessons he taught me in my journey of life.
– TARA
Five
“My father had always been looking for this girl. He worked with you and many other NGO’s in his spare time and helped find a home for many children,” I told the man at the NGO. “I just want to know more about this girl he rescued—Mukta. You must maintain some records of the children you rescue.”
“I wouldn’t know.” He shrugged. “I am new here.”
“Is there somebody else I can speak to?”
He looked at me confused. “Maybe,” he said. “There is a senior person here—Mr. Chitale. He may be able to help. I’ll call him.” He disappeared behind a door.
So far I had discovered there had been two girls by the name of Mukta who had been rescued on the same day Papa had brought Mukta home. But, with one look at the attached photographs, I knew neither of them was the girl who had lived with us for five years. A couple of the agencies couldn’t find a Mukta in their files, and others said they didn’t maintain such records because the orphanages were supposed to maintain them.
“Yes, I am Mr. Chitale. What can I do for you?” He was an old man who limped toward me with a walking stick.
“I am looking for a girl. Her name is Mukta. My Papa—his name is Ashok Deshmukh—he had rescued this girl. I just want to kn
ow if there is any information in her file, anything that can help me find her.”
“Ashok Deshmukh . . . ” he frowned and adjusted his glasses, “Haan haan Ashok Sahib. Yes, he rescued so many children. How can we forget? How is he these days?”
“He . . . he’s all right,” I lied. I didn’t want to tell him about Papa’s suicide and invite questions. “He wanted me to look for Mukta, a girl he brought home in 1988. I am trying to find her.”
“All right,” he nodded, “but we didn’t have any computers back then, so we only maintained the names in a file. Five years ago the cupboard had termites, and we threw away the files.”
“Oh.”
“But before we destroyed the files, we put all the information into the computer. Let me see if I can find her in here.” He took his glasses out and set them aside on the table. “What name did you say?”
“Mukta.”
He typed the name many times, opening many records, leaning into the computer.
“There are five Mukta’s in our system. But they are girls who have been placed in orphanages recently. We didn’t place a girl by that name in 1988.”
“Could it be there was a loss of data when the transfer of files happened?’
“I don’t think so. We are a very small organization. Many volunteers work for free but there wouldn’t be any mistake. I wish I could have helped you. Ashok Sahib was such a good friend and a kind person. I’ve never really met anyone who has helped children as he had in those years. Wait . . . didn’t you say this girl, Mukta, came from the same village as your father?”
I nodded.
“Then why don’t you go there. You might find something.”
“I can’t, “I explained. “It might sound weird when I say this, but I think . . . I think they’d kill me if I stepped foot in that village, if they knew I was Ashok Deshmukh’s daughter.”