Outside In

by Jennifer Bradbury

They begin to descend again, leaving the animals behind. Finally Nek stops in front of a blob of concrete covered in vines. “I’ve been neglecting this corner.”

  Ram takes a closer look. Houses. Houses! Six, seven, maybe more. Each is big enough for a little dog to climb inside, or maybe one of the monkeys that hangs from the treetops. Their walls are made of the same rough concrete, their crude doorways stand open, their roofs are made of mismatched planks. Some are bigger than others, some taller, narrower. A couple have rounded walls, more huts than houses.

  “It started here.”

  “A village,” Ram says.

  “My village.” Nek brushes some dried leaves from the doorway of the nearest structure.

  “One of the ones that was knocked down?”

  “No,” he says. “The one I left in the north. I walked here with my mother and father. Hundreds of miles we walked.”

  “You were one of the ones who left,” Ram says, starting to understand. “How old were you?”

  Nek considers. “I was only a boy. Nearly thirty years gone. My younger sister was lost.”

  “Lost?”

  “Taken. Long before we even reached the new border. We searched for her. But she was just one person. And everybody lost someone. We had to keep going or we’d have been killed too.”

  “You stopped here? In Chandigarh?” Ram rubs the bead under his shirt.

  Nek breathes deeply. “Delhi.” He wanders over to another of the buildings. “Family there took us in until we could rent rooms of our own. My mother took in washing and my father worked as a porter. I was able to go to school for a while.”

  “Only for a while?”

  “My father died two years after we settled. And my mother a few months after him. The breaking of the country, the move . . . Damini’s disappearance. Partition killed so many people. It just took longer for my parents. Like a cancer.”

  Ram says nothing.

  “I was sent to live with other relatives. I made a life there as best I could. But work was scarce. Three years ago I came to Chandigarh to work in the bicycle factory. I found the trees one day when the factory was shut. I did not want to go back to my room on Mani Marg, so I wandered out here. And found this place.” He gazes at the trees and the darkness pressing around them. “It made me remember being a boy. Playing in the forest near my old village. Plowing fields and planting crops and carrying water from the well for my father’s farm. Something in me woke up. My hands wanted to make things. I saw all the extra material left over from constructing the government buildings and apartments and roads. I collected bits that they were going to throw away. And I didn’t know I was rebuilding the village I left behind until I was halfway through it.”

  Nek lays his palm on the roof of one house.

  “This is like the one I grew up in,” he explains. “And that one, with the wavy roof? That was the temple.”

  “So you did all this—even the soldiers and the walls and everything—because you were . . . homesick?”

  “At first. Now I’m so used to making things that I can’t stop. I don’t want to. Even though it could all be taken from me just as swiftly as my first life was.”

  Ram goes still. “Taken from you, Uncle ji?”

  Nek stares at him, daring him to figure out what he’s just said.

  And Ram understands with a jolt that Nek is not supposed to be here. Just as Ram is not supposed to live on the rooftop of the dancing school, Nek has no rightful claim to this land. No wonder he uses garbage to make his statues. No wonder he works all day in a factory. No wonder he was so panicked when Ram first appeared. No wonder he made Ram promise not to tell anyone about it.

  “You don’t own this land. You don’t belong here.”

  Nek climbs around to another hut to clear its door and windows. “I do belong here.”

  “But you don’t own it. They could make you leave.” Nek continues tearing at the creepers. Ram’s brain is still parsing out what this all means and he speaks without thinking, blurting out, “I could just make you pay me now to keep quiet about this place.” Ram is ashamed the instant the words leave his mouth. He hadn’t meant it as a threat, but he knows it sounds that way.

  Ram backpedals. “I didn’t mean . . . I mean that I was just . . .” What does Ram mean? He means that he is glad that in some way, some tiny way, Nek needs or wants Ram’s help. Or that he wants to share this place and this work with him. But he isn’t sure how to say this without sticking his foot in his mouth again. Luckily, he doesn’t have to.

  “I know you won’t tell. Now come and help me.”

  Ram is relieved that Nek knows him well enough already to know that he can keep a secret. Especially one so wonderful as this. He isn’t used to being trusted. And he likes the feeling. He joins Nek to tug at the vines. “How do you know I won’t say anything, Uncle ji?”

  Nek waits until they pull the last of the vines free. He starts walking back up the path to the clearing, torch in hand, before he answers. “Because if you did, you would not know what happens next to Rama and Lakshmana.”

  Rama and Lakshmana were pleased to continue their adventures and their training. The holy man was pleased to have the protection and companionship the brothers offered. But he had a higher purpose in leading them farther from home.

  The neighboring kingdom was ruled by wise King Janak. King Janak had a special daughter of his own. He, too, had been childless, until one day he prayed to the gods. The next morning one of his farmers plowed a field outside the palace walls. When the farmer surveyed the furrow he’d just dug, he was shocked to find a beautiful, healthy infant girl among the roots and stones. He hurried the baby to the palace. Janak recognized the girl as the answer to his pleas, adopted her, and named her Sita.

  Sita grew in loveliness and kindness, and she brought joy to Janak’s household. The holy man could not resist playing matchmaker. So it was he led Rama to Janak’s palace. And so it was he made sure that Rama glimpsed Sita through the carved lattices on the terrace of the palace.

  Both were lovestruck. Sita could scarcely credit that such perfection walked the earth. Rama could not believe he’d gone his whole life without witnessing such beauty.

  Though they hadn’t spoken, and didn’t even know who the other was, their hearts were set like the needles of twin compasses.

  “Who is she, teacher?” Rama asked the holy man.

  The holy man hid his smile and answered, “Princess Sita, of course.”

  “May I meet her?” Rama thought if only he could hear her lovely voice he would be content for the rest of his days.

  The holy man shook his head. “Unlikely. She is her father’s precious pearl. Many, many princes from around the world have come to ask the king for her hand. But he will not even let one of them near her unless they can pass the test he has set for the man who will be worthy of her.”

  “Test?” Rama brightened. “What test?”

  “Oh,” the holy man lamented. “A very difficult one.”

  Rama and Lakshmana grew excited. They were beginning to enjoy difficult things. “Tell us,” Lakshmana said.

  “If any man would seek to marry beautiful Sita, he must first string the bow of Lord Shiva.”

  “Lord Shiva’s bow?” Rama repeated.

  “It fell to earth here when Shiva did battle in the heavens. Janak keeps it as a sign of the god’s protection. But the bow is enormous. Every prince who has come to try cannot even manage to lift it, much less bend it to fit the string.”

  “So it is an impossible test?” Lakshmana said.

  The holy man considered. “Some tests are meant only to show what cannot ever be done. But those tests are not true. A true test is meant to reveal what wonderful thing can be done when the right person comes along. They are meant to show something about the person, not the challenge itself.”

  “What kind of test is this one, then?” Rama asked.

  The holy man pretended to hesitate. “Let’s go and find out.”


  At the palace, Sita’s father was impressed with the princes’ regal bearing. And when he learned Rama and Lakshmana were the sons of Dasaratha, he was even more pleased. If anyone would take his daughter from his side, he hoped it would be one of these fine young men.

  When Sita saw who had come to seek her hand, her heart leaped. But it fell just as quickly into despair. She knew the test to bend Shiva’s bow was impossible.

  But Rama was not discouraged. When he saw the bow, it seemed to call out to him, like he was meant to find it, like it was dharma. “Would you like to try first, Lakshmana?”

  Lakshmana cracked a small smile. He could see how smitten his brother was. He’d already made up his mind not to try—his brother’s happiness meant more to him than any test. “You go first, brother.”

  Relieved, Rama reached out and picked up the bow as easily as a panther might scoop up her cub in her jaw. He set the bow on its end, braced it with his legs, and reached up with the looped end of the string.

  What happened next shocked everyone. Rama not only succeeded in bending the bow that no one else had so much as been able to budge, but he also broke it clean in half!

  The king was amazed. Sita was overjoyed. Lakshmana nearly burst with pride. Rama was thrilled. Only the holy man was unsurprised by this turn of events, and he kept himself to himself, smiling quietly as Rama and Sita were at last allowed to meet and the kingdom flew into a frenzy of preparation for the royal wedding.

  Four days flit by. With every passing lunchtime and every late evening in the garden, Ram becomes more apprentice than unwanted employee. Nek has begun a new statue, but the process is slow. The first day, they bound pieces of construction rod with twine to make a stick figure. The second, they covered the frame in chicken wire, bending and roughing out the form. The third, Ram tore and soaked newspaper into strips that Nek wrapped over the frame. The fourth saw them adding more wire, more wet newspaper.

  The nights have been long, but Ram is happier than he’s ever been. Too happy and keyed up to sleep when he climbs back to his rooftop bed. The parades don’t help much either, more frequent and louder than ever as they pass through the street below. And it is turning cold, the season sliding toward winter.

  Saturday morning Ram shivers under his blanket and snatches at sleep like a monkey picking fleas. Finally he gives up and goes down to the street. At least Nek only has to work the morning and not the whole day. At least they’ll have the entire afternoon and evening to work on the next stage for the statue, the one Ram’s been most looking forward to: molding the cement onto the wire-and-newspaper skeleton.

  And there’ll be plenty of time for a story, he thinks. He’s been learning so much and been so focused on the work that he’s forgotten to ask what happened next to the two brothers and Sita.

  At the end of Ram’s alley, the street is littered with the remnants of last night’s parade. Spent firecrackers. Paper wrappers. Wilted marigold petals.

  “Ram!” Daya shouts from the corner in front of her father’s building. “Hey, Ram!”

  He hasn’t seen her since the rickshaw ride. She runs to him, dressed not in her school uniform but in a pair of red pants and a bulky woolen sweater. Ram eyes the sweater with envy. Daya misreads his gaze and scratches at her neck. “Maa made me wear this today. It isn’t even that cold out. And this thing is so itchy.” Ram needs to find something warm to wear soon. How nice would it be to have someone just hand him a fresh new sweater, itchy or no? Last year he found a good one under the bench at the play field, where a careless boy had shed it when the chilly morning gave way to a warmer day. It was only a little small, and Ram wore holes in it by the time the spring rains came. “C’mon. There are so many kids in the park. Papa says I can—”

  “Not now, Daya.”

  He’s halfway to the factory before Daya understands that he has said no. She runs to catch up. “But, Ram,” she says. “I’ve been waiting. We can go and hit—”

  He must have slept later than he realized. The factory gate is already locked tight. Nek’s bicycle is not parked inside. He must already be at the garden.

  “I’m busy today, Daya. Maybe tomorrow. Or Monday. You don’t have school on Monday, do you?”

  “Busy?” Daya makes a face. “Don’t you even want to know where I’ve been? Why I haven’t been around?”

  She waits. Ram realizes it has been almost a week since he last saw her. “Vijay and those boys are really mad. They’re looking for you. And they’ve been following me after school. I’ve led them on silly routes until I finally just go home. He wants that dumb watch back,” Daya says.

  “I heard him that day at the school. Bothering you. I’m sorry, Daya.”

  “They’re all bewakoofs. But I’ve been protecting you by not coming here, and now that I finally got here, you are too busy?”

  Ram feels terrible. “I’m sorry, Daya. Here—” He starts to undo the clasp on the watch, but she sighs.

  “No,” she says. “I’m not giving it back. You won it, fair and square, and they won’t hurt me. But you need to be careful, Ram.”

  “Thanks, Daya,” Ram is more relieved than he is willing to admit. He’s grown attached to the watch. And giving in to Peach Fuzz would be awful. “I’ll find you tomorrow, changa?”

  He starts to run.

  “Ram!” Ram stops. Daya is following him. He notices the paper bag for the first time. “Here,” she says, voice defiant, but eyes soft like he’s the one yelling at her. “I saved these for you.”

  He peeks in the bag. Pakoras. The cheese kind. “Thanks.”

  “Let me run and ask Papa if I can go with you—”

  “No!” Ram says quickly, snatching the bag.

  “But Ram—”

  “I can’t wait,” Ram says by way of excuse. “We’ll hit gilli soon.”

  Daya plants a fist on her hip. “Tomorrow.”

  “I promise,” Ram says. “Changa fer?”

  Daya only shrugs and walks sullenly back to her father’s office.

  Ram runs to the corner, and then all the way to the garden.

  When he arrives, Nek is finishing his lunch.

  “I brought food, too,” Ram says, shaking the sack at him. Nek waves him off. “Eat them yourself. I thought you weren’t coming, so I ate your portion already.”

  “Oh.” Good thing Ram loves pakoras. He reaches into his bag. They are cold, but still crunchy in spots and good and greasy in the middle.

  Nek repacks his lunch things, and then pulls three twenty-rupee coins from his pocket. “Your wages.”

  Ram grins. “My winnings.”

  “Call them what you will,” Nek says without looking at him. “You earned them.”

  Nek returns to mixing cement as Ram studies the coins. He is pleased to have some of his money back, but struck by how he’d almost forgotten about the bargain.

  Somehow this fact pleases him even more than the money itself.

  “Let me help.” Ram stuffs another pakora into his mouth.

  Nek keeps working. “You can do the next batch.”

  Ram studies the statue. He notices for the first time that this one doesn’t have two legs like the others; instead the chicken wire forms a long, full sweep at the bottom. Like a skirt.

  “It’s Sita, isn’t it?” he says.

  Nek sits back. “Very good.”

  “You haven’t told me yet what happened after they got married.”

  Nek stops mixing. “You’re right. But I think it is time for you to tell a story. How did you come to Chandigarh?”

  “I have always been here.”

  “Alone?”

  “Not always. There was a girl once.” The bead burns at his chest. He wonders if he should show it to Nek. The man knows something about art. Or at least about making things.

  But no.

  “Was she kind to you?”

  Ram conjures the girl’s face. “Yes.” She used to sing to him, that he remembers. He even remembers her telling him stories, but not
the stories themselves. Only the safe feeling of listening to her voice in the darkness. Did she tell him Rama’s tales? She must have. Maybe that’s why the story sometimes feels familiar.

  His heart twists and crunches down when he thinks of her, though he is not sure why. “She was very pretty. And not old. She was much taller than I was. I called her Pehn.”

  “Pehn means sister.”

  Ram lifts a shoulder. He only knows it is what he called her, not if it was truly who she was. She treated him like a mother would a son. “It was long ago. When I was littler.”

  “How little?”

  Ram has had five festival seasons—five seasons of parades and pageants and fireworks—since he saw the girl last.

  “Maybe seven years old,” Ram says.

  Nek makes a little noise and adds water to the cement. “Where did she go?”

  Ram screws up his face. “She told me one day that a nice man offered her a good job in a big house. She was happy. And she told me that she would have money for us soon. That we might even have money to share a room with beds and windows and everything. A big black car took her away.”

  Nek’s voice sounds funny as he asks, “Did she say what kind of job?”

  “Does it matter?” Ram asks. “What kind of job?”

  Nek’s smile is less convincing than the ones his laughing soldiers wear. “Probably not.”

  Singh had acted and sounded just like this when Ram told him about Pehn.

  “I’ll find her someday,” Ram says now, just as he once said to Singh.

  Nek doesn’t reply.

  “When I have enough money, I’ll buy my own tuk-tuk, maybe even a car, and search for her.”

  Nek wipes a hand over his chin. “That would be a good end to that story,” he says after too long. His voice sounds funny.

  Ram still has three pakoras left, but he’s not so hungry anymore. The breeze shushes through the rosewood leaves.

  Then Nek, his voice still funny but trying to sound gruff, says, “Concrete’s getting dry. Her sari will be ready for decorating soon.”

  “Decorated with what? More broken pots?”

  “Broken pots won’t do for Sita.” He pops up and fetches a box from the supply tarp. Ram knows from the sound that it is the bangles. “These.”