Outside In

by Jennifer Bradbury

  That’s mine! Ram screams inwardly. Stop!

  Nek’s fingers rake through the contents. Ram knows well what hides inside. His best gilli stick. A few parathas and an apple he saved from this morning’s breakfast. And all those coins. The man scoots the coins around, counting them with one finger.

  Then Nek plucks out what looks to be at least one-fourth of the afternoon’s winnings. He stacks the coins in the little space at the foot of the shrine. Then he reties the knot and returns the parcel to the crate. Before he goes, Nek flattens his palms against each other, lifts his hands to his forehead, and bows, the bike slipping down his leg.

  Finally, he yanks the bicycle upright, mounts, and pedals away.

  Ram dashes to snatch up the coins, grabbing a mango while he’s at it, hoping no one is watching. He starts to move off, but the gaze of the blue man inside the shrine follows him eerily. Ram does his best to bow the way the factory man just did before he breaks into a jog.

  It seems unfair to have had to run away after earning this money only to have to chase it down again now. But he learned long ago that fair is for those boys with their blue coats and red ties. Not him.

  Following Nek is easier than Ram anticipated. Even though the man is on a bicycle, the lanes are crowded and he has to stop often for traffic signals and crossings. Ram has plenty of time to eat the mango. It is just shy of being fully ripe, so it makes his mouth itchy, but he tosses the pit aside after six giant bites and wipes the sticky juice on the hem of his shirt.

  The city is easy to navigate—all the lanes as straight as compass needles, fat roundabouts planted at their intersections. Chandigarh is a young city, still growing. Singh—who helps build and plan the roads and the sectors that lie between them—told Ram that Chandigarh was built as a symbol of hope and new beginnings after all the terrible things that happened during Partition. Partition, Singh explained, meant to separate into parts. Like peeling and dividing an orange into sections. Only in this case, it meant separating India into two countries—Pakistan in the north and India to the south. Partition was supposed to make things more peaceful, allowing people to choose which side they wanted to live on. But many were hurt or killed or lost in the messy business of making two countries out of one.

  Ram has overheard old men in the park swapping tales, comparing accounts of the horrors that they or their families suffered during the division of lands and villages. Those same old storytellers now worry about what might happen next between India and Pakistan, about more trouble along the borders.

  Ram can’t fathom how a new city can fix such troubles, but Singh seems to believe that it has helped. A new beginning for a new chapter in India, he calls it. Singh claims there is no place like it in all of India or Pakistan. An island of peace and progress, with wide streets built on a perfect grid, the sectors meant to be self-contained, each with its own school, shopping complex, temples. Ram likes the order, likes how the arrow-straight roads have two lanes going both directions, and walking and cycling paths at their margins, strips of greenery in the middles, studded with trees now going gold and red with the coming of the winter. At the edges of the streets rise up brick walls, some two or three meters high. Behind the walls sit houses, apartment buildings, office buildings, and schools. Singh once told Ram that the city won’t allow buildings taller than nine floors, and since then, Ram has made it a game to try to find one with a tenth. So far he hasn’t. The shapes of the buildings echo the same block pattern of the streets themselves, but with little touches to make them unique: a wall painted in a soothing blue, or a curved iron gate offering a peek at a front garden.

  Ram loves Chandigarh, but someday he’ll travel to other cities. Someday he’ll earn enough money to buy a bicycle. And then he can earn enough to buy his own rickshaw, and then a tuk-tuk, and maybe even one day a taxi. Then he’ll drive all over India, maybe even drive far enough to find the girl who left him behind.

  Ram needs that money. This Nek doesn’t. He’s even given some away at the shrine like it doesn’t matter at all! Ram fumes at the thought that the fortune he worked so hard for has ended up with this fool.

  Ram knows this route, though he’s used it only a couple of times to go back and forth to the lake at the edge of town. Knowing the way makes it easy to follow at a distance, and easier still because the man stops often to dig through piles of trash, or to pick up an old burlap bag that has been flattened and molded itself to the surface of the road. He adds things to the crate mounted to his bicycle and rides on. As they near the edge of the city, when the lights begin to fade and the noise is only a rumble instead of a roar, the proper road ends. Even here there are signs that the city is growing. Tools—shovels, picks, and wheelbarrows—wait for workmen to reclaim them in the morning. And all around are the stones that the workers have dug up in the quest to lay out the new streets. Some are piled in crude pyramids; others wait in line by the side of the someday street. Across the unfinished road stands a riot of trees and vines and too-tall grass—a tract of uncleared forest that marks the edge of the planned city. According to Singh, someday all those trees will be cleared out to make way for more sectors as the city grows.

  Nek leans his bicycle up against a great steel barrel and studies the stones. The light is almost gone now. Ram hides behind a bus stand as the man picks up stone after stone, struggling with some that are as big as pumpkins. The man tests them; he rolls them around on the trenched-up earth to check their shapes and edges, staring at one for a few seconds before nodding to himself and adding it to the crate. Then he goes back for another.

  Ram can understand that the man would take his parcel and his money, but rocks? Trash from the street? He must be mad.

  When the crate is full and Nek has repositioned the smaller items around the stones he has collected, he climbs back on the bicycle. The heavy load strains the frame, and the tires ride low in the rear. Nek pedals slowly, the extra weight straining him as well.

  It would be simple to run him down now, but the road is empty and Nek will see him coming.

  Half a mile beyond where the road construction ends, the forest grows even denser. And here Nek dismounts and wheels his bicycle right into its heart. Ram can just make out the man’s tunic as he unloads something from the crate and disappears into the trees.

  Perfect. Ram runs to the bicycle, peers into the crate.

  No bag.

  Siyappa. The man must have taken it with him.

  Perhaps he has a hiding place back in these trees. Ram has to hope so. He needs that money. And his gilli stick. It’s his lucky one. The one the girl taught him to play with all those years ago. Since then, the edges have been honed away, and Ram knows that no matter how it spins, he can hit it true.

  Ram avoids the path the man has worn into the forest floor, and presses through the curtain of vines, his arm brushing the fuzzy undersides of a curry-leaf shrub, sending up a nutty, spicy smell he recognizes from the market stalls. Ram startles at the warning bark of a langur, sees the monkey’s white tail and black hands and feet land on a thick branch before springing off again. He’s seen monkeys pestering people in town. They’re funny there. An annoyance as they snitch food or overturn rubbish bins. But out here, in the forest, this one seems wild, and it makes Ram’s heart pound to see it disappear.

  A few minutes later, he is startled to see Nek returning to his bicycle. Ram melts behind a tree, going still as Nek passes. He counts to twenty, then moves as fast as he can in the direction Nek came from, taking the trail this time. He’ll find his parcel and be gone before Nek is even aware that he’s been followed.

  A hundred meters farther, Ram stumbles into ring of rounded stones framing a clearing about three meters wide. Inside the ring, two low fires—freshly lit, judging by the smoke—burn on rough metal squares. Bicycle tires, Ram realizes. The man is burning bicycle tires, maybe even ones from the factory where he works. They produce just enough light to hold back the twilight and the shadows of the trees.

&nbs
p; A tarp, its corners affixed to four stout trees with thin cord, shelters an assortment of junk. Buckets, wooden kegs, something that might be a pile of sticks, bag after lumpy bag filled with who knows what. Piles of broken glass, the colors shining back under the blue-orange flames, heaps of rags, scraps of cloth, a few odd dishes and flowerpots. In front of the tarp is a stool, and beside the stool the squat figure of a statue—half Ram’s height, the arms too long for the body.

  But nowhere is Ram’s parcel.

  What is this place? Ram’s fear begins to crowd out his wonder. The clearing is a like a nest. A hidden place. Or possibly a trap.

  Then Ram hears footsteps crunching on the narrow track. Nek is coming. And Ram hasn’t found his money.

  But he knows he can’t leave without it.

  Ram shimmies up a ropy banyan tree, settles into a wide branch, bracing his feet against the main trunk. The smoke is stronger up here, and it dawns on Ram that the fires might be for more than just light. The flames and smoke could also be for keeping animals—particularly snakes—at bay.

  Snakes. Ram shivers. Of course there are snakes. How could Ram not have thought of snakes before? How many could be waiting between where he sits now and the road a hundred meters away? How many might hide in the branches above him, even? He’s almost spooked enough to run, but then Nek reappears, struggling with one of the stones he collected by the road.

  Ram is torn. He twists the bead on the cord he wears around his neck, considering his options. Should he go? Come back at daylight and search for his money? But Nek might just as easily take it with him to wherever he lives. And then what will Ram do? No. Snakes or not, Ram is not leaving without that money.

  Nek places the rock carefully—as if it is a great, delicate egg—into the ring that forms the perimeter of the clearing. Then he scans the little work area, studying the dusty ground. Footprints? Ram worries as he, too, scans the earth. Did I leave footprints? Nek peers into the forest, and Ram holds his breath, afraid now he is not high enough to avoid being seen, despite the dark.

  After too long, Nek scratches the top of his head, then shrugs and settles on the little stool by the funny statue.

  Ram can hear him murmuring.

  “How are you this evening, friend?”

  What?

  “Yes, I believe you are almost ready to join the others.”

  Others? Then Ram understands that the man is talking to the statue. He’s mystified and more than a little uneasy at being alone in the dark with this strange man who has stolen his fortune. A thief who collects junk and apparently talks to statues.

  And Ram can’t forget about the snakes, no matter how much he’d like to.

  But his money . . .

  Nek fetches a tin pail and a large glass jar from beneath the tarp. He lays these beside the statue. Unrolling the top of one of the heavy paper bags Ram saw earlier, he tips it into the pail. A fine gray powder streams out, dust puffing up like Ram’s breath does on the cold mornings he’s been waking up to lately. Nek pours a measure of water from the jar, and then stirs water and powder together with a long stick, the sides of the bucket clank dully as he mixes.

  “Yes, I see the mortar is too thick,” Nek says to the statue. “Patience.” He trickles more water from the jar, stirs again. Then he holds it up to the statue man. “Han?”

  The man is pagal, Ram is sure of it.

  Nek leaves the bucket at the feet of the statue, and then shuffles back under the tarp. The pile of junk shifts and clanks as the man digs through it.

  Nek emerges at last with a glazed clay pot. Even in the firelight, Ram can see how bright the colors are, how shiny the glaze. A great crack splits the side from the rim to an inch or so above the base. Broken. Ram is surprised that it even still holds together.

  But then Nek does something even more surprising. He lays the pot on the ground upside down, palms a rock in his fist, and brings it down hard on the bottom. The pot spreads out like a pressed flower. Then Nek flips each piece over, hits it a few more times with his rock until a pile of littler pieces waits at his feet.

  Picking up one, he reaches into the bucket and scoops up some of the mortar with a tablespoon, buttering the back of the shard before sticking it carefully onto the body of the statue.

  “Hush,” Nek says. “Your armor may be prettier than the others. But no one likes a boaster.”

  The man is mad, but Ram is mesmerized as Nek covers the body of the figure in scales broken from the pot. Dip into the bucket with the spoon, fetch up a shard from the pile at his feet, swipe the spoon across the back, and then puzzle the piece into place on the body of the statue. When a few dozen pieces have been placed, Nek sighs loudly.

  “You are quiet tonight, my friend.”

  Ram holds himself very, very still.

  “Since you are so silent, shall I tell you a secret?”

  Ram can’t resist a secret, no matter what it is, whether it has anything to do with him or not. Can’t resist it even if the teller might be crazy. Or dangerous.

  The man leans close, his voice dropping low. “Nek can trust you, yes?”

  Nek waits for the stone face to respond, but when it doesn’t, he smiles, wags the goopy spoon at the statue. “Yes, you make your point.”

  Ram scrunches up his face. This Nek is out of his mind.

  “Here it is, then.” Nek resumes working. “You are my favorite so far.”

  That’s it? This statue is his favorite? His favorite what?

  “I know, I know,” Nek says. “But I see the differences. You’re all different. You’re all closer to being right than the time before.”

  Different? Closer?

  “Perhaps I shouldn’t play favorites.” Nek places another shard. “But I’m in good enough company, aren’t I? Even King Dasaratha had his favorites, and we all know how that turned out.”

  King Dasaratha? Ram knows India has a prime minister, not a king. What is this Nek talking about?

  “No?” Nek asks the statue, sounding almost annoyed. “You don’t know?”

  Despite himself, despite the fact that he is hiding in the tree and the tangled vines, Ram feels himself shaking his head.

  “Then listen.”

  Long, long ago, in a corner of the land that would one day be called India, Dasaratha ruled the beautiful kingdom of Ayodhya. To help him rule, King Dasaratha had the wise and beautiful Kausalya at his side. But while the people of the kingdom lived in peace and wealth, the king and his wife were unhappy.

  They had no children.

  Desperate for an heir, the king took a second wife, Sumitra.

  Still no sons or daughters.

  So he took a third wife, Kaikeyi. Kaikeyi had saved the king’s life when they first met, and because of it he had promised to grant her two wishes someday. And Dasaratha was sure she would be the one to finally bear him a child.

  Once again, the household despaired when no children were born of this union either.

  Now Dasaratha had three beautiful wives—though Kausalya remained his favorite—but no children to carry on his kingdom.

  One god in particular saw his despair and decided to help.

  His name was Vishnu.

  Vishnu sent a holy man to Dasaratha, a holy man bearing a magic bowl of kheer. The holy man promised the king that if he only gave his wives some of this special food, they would finally conceive and bear him sons.

  Of course, the king obeyed. But because he loved Kausalya best, he gave her a portion double what he gave to the other two wives.

  And lo, soon Dasaratha had not one son, but four!

  To Kausalya, his most beloved wife, was born Rama.

  To his middle wife, the twins Lakshmana and Shatrughna.

  And to his youngest wife was born Bharata.

  The entire kingdom rejoiced. Four sons! Four princes!

  But Rama was special. It was obvious from the first moment all laid eyes upon him. His skin was the color of the sky on a cloudless day.

  The
blue cast to his skin should have been unnatural, but to all who saw the baby, it seemed the most right thing in the world. And the blue deepened as he grew older and even more handsome. His eyes shone with wisdom, his mind raced with understanding, and his heart beat with kindness.

  He was the favorite of his father the king. Indeed the favorite of all who knew the brothers. What no one knew, not even Rama himself, was that Vishnu had entered the world through the birth of the four brothers. Because Rama’s mother had taken a bigger portion of the magic kheer, the lion’s share of Vishnu’s strength and virtue rested inside Rama, ready and waiting for the time when it would be required.

  King Dasaratha and Queen Kausalya were proud of their Rama, and in their hearts they knew the first prince was meant for something greater than simply inheriting his father’s throne.

  So when the holy man came back to Ayodhya many years later, the king and queen were not surprised to find that he had a special interest in Rama. They were, however, surprised by his request.

  “Dear King Dasaratha,” the holy man said. “There is a sacred place just beyond your borders where I wish to pray.”

  “Go freely, wise one,” the king said, “and go with my blessing.”

  The holy man bowed his thanks, but continued, “I would go, good king, but for one problem.”

  In those days, many rakshasas, or evil creatures, walked the earth. Some only pestered the good people, but some were very dangerous and evil.

  “There is a demon who devours all who seek to visit the holy place where I must go to pray.”

  The king, perhaps sensing what the holy man was about to ask for, made him an offer. “I will send my finest soldiers along with you to protect you and slay the demon.”

  The wise man shook his head. “I need only two strong warriors.”

  “Two?”

  The holy man nodded. “Your sons, Rama and Lakshmana.”

  Dasaratha’s heart wilted. Rama was the king’s favorite, but Lakshmana was a near second. And the two brothers were also the best of friends. “But they have only just come into their manhood. Surely my trained—”