Ram obeys, but he can’t believe what he’s just heard. “That’s a terrible story!” he exclaims.
Nek pulls his hands away gently. The head stays in place. He holds the torch up to inspect the seam. “Maybe. What happened is terrible. But what resulted was good. Destroyed. Rebuilt. That is the way of things.”
And Ram understands that Nek is apologizing, too. In his own way.
Nek shines the light at the ground, scans the undergrowth. “Do you see where his eye has fallen?”
Ram drops down; they search for a few minutes before Ram sighs, shines the light back at Shiva. “I will make him another,” Nek says. “Until then, he can wink at us.”
Ram tries to laugh at the humor, but he’s uneasy. Maybe the eye flew into the ravine? But if Nek isn’t worried, why should Ram be?
With the light haloed around Shiva, Ram can see how magnificent the statue really is. The detail is intricate, the helmet on top of Shiva’s head rising to a point as fine as a pencil’s tip. He is free of the adornment of the soldiers, no broken tile armoring his body—just finely worked concrete shaped into muscle, clothing. It is better than anything Ram has seen elsewhere in the garden, better than anything he has ever seen in the city, even.
“Let’s get back to Sita,” Nek says, giving Shiva one last pat.
Ram follows, but his mind stays with Shiva up on the imaginary waterfall. Then it travels to the winding path and under the curving wall to the laughing army. And then to the menagerie and the village and who knows what else Nek has hidden out here.
“Why?” he asks, without realizing at first that he is speaking aloud.
“Why what?”
“Why go to all the trouble of making something so well only to hide it where no one can see it?”
“You have seen it.”
Ram is almost annoyed. He suspects Nek knows what he means. Seen by people who matter, who know about statues and stories and all the things that Nek is bringing to life. Not a nobody like him. “I mean everyone. Don’t you want to show off how good they are?”
They reenter the clearing and the workshop. “Other people don’t have to see them for me to know they are special.”
“But—”
“I do these things because I have to. Because if I don’t, I cannot live with myself. That is the only way I can explain. And if others saw them, they would take it all away from me. I’m nothing. A man who works in a bicycle factory. A man who has claimed land that does not belong to him. If I show people what I have done, what do you think will happen?”
Ram realizes that Nek was more frightened than he was angry when he banished him. Ram brought the boys so close to discovering the garden. He could have ended it all!
“Back to work,” Nek announces.
Ram studies Sita. Nek hasn’t changed or added a single thing on her since Ram left. Four days and he hasn’t done anything more on the statue they began together.
Nek waited. For him. Ram blinks. Hard. Nek waited for him.
“I need to finish Jambavan here first.” Nek gestures to the bear. “But you can cut the bangles into pieces. With any luck, we might start placing them before I leave for Diwali week after next.”
Leave for Diwali? Nek was leaving? Not now, just when they are friends again! “How long will you be gone, Uncle ji?” Ram asks casually, as if he doesn’t care, not at all.
“Three days.”
Three days. What will Ram do with himself?
Nek clears his throat. “Maybe if I show you how, you will want to come and work on the pattern. While I’m gone?”
“But you said—”
“I know what I said. But that was before.”
“Yes!” Ram says quickly. “I will! I’ll put the pieces just right. You’ll see.”
Nek seems satisfied. “Good.”
Ram bends to his task, happy to be back at work, his joy growing with every snip.
Ram and Nek settle into a comfortable rhythm. Nearly two weeks go by. The city explodes in fireworks and bonfires of the giant statues on Victory Day at the end of Dussehra and then settles down again to wait for Diwali, the holiday that closes out the festival season.
Schools are closed and some offices, too, but Nek’s factory stays open, and he and Ram continue working in the garden every night. Jambavan the bear is finished and placed with the other animals. He’s heavier than some of the others, but still surprisingly light. They all look like solid stone, but the way Nek builds them, around the wire and newspaper, makes them easier to carry. Still, Jambavan is big enough and round enough that it takes both of them.
They work a little more on clearing out the land around Shiva, hauling dirt by buckets until Ram’s arms and back ache. And last night, they finished covering Sita with concrete. Tonight they’ll start decorating her. Ram can hardly wait.
Daya is stationed at the corner when Ram makes his way to the street in the morning.
“C’mon,” she orders. “Maa let me come with Papa today. Papa said we could go to the park as long as I don’t gamble, but he didn’t say anything about you—”
Ram is still shaking off sleep. “I need to get something to eat.”
“Papa gave me money.” Daya changes direction abruptly. “We can eat and then go to the park.”
She grabs his hand and leads him to Rakesh’s stand. The dancing school lady shakes out a rug into the street. Her windows, like all the others in town, are spotless. Many people have been putting out their lights—the little clay oil lamps they burn at night this time of year. They line the walls and terraces, warming the streets with their glow.
And people have been scrubbing their homes, cleaning out closets. Ram even found a nice wool blanket—the same one he saw the dancing school lady wearing over her shoulders one cold morning a couple of weeks ago—folded up and left on top of the dustbins in the alley. He couldn’t believe she’d throw away such a treasure, but he was glad she had when he slept warmly under it last night.
Daya smiles sweetly at the dancing school lady. The woman nods back, avoiding Ram’s eye.
“Hello, Princess Daya,” Rakesh says. “Special for you today. Three for one.”
“Three for one!”
“Business is slow,” Rakesh says. “Too many people sharing sweets. And many of the workers are away on holiday.”
“We’ll take six,” Daya says, holding out the money. Rakesh wraps the samosas in a square of newspaper. Daya refuses her change, and she and Ram eat as they walk to the park.
Ram looks over his shoulder at the factory. They close at noon today and will be closed for the next few days for the holiday. And Nek has his journey tomorrow, so today is Ram’s last day to work with him before he goes.
But he has at least an hour or two to fill before Nek is done.
“Ram!” Daya sounds annoyed.
“Huh?”
“Were you even listening?”
Ram swallows. “What did you say?”
A monster game of tag is already in progress in the park.
“I asked what you wanted to do, but you were too busy trying to get a glimpse of your weird friend.”
“Nek uncle isn’t weird.”
Daya huffs. “What do you do, anyway? I’ve seen you go to that stand of trees past the unfinished street—”
“You followed me?”
“Only to the edge of the sector,” Daya says. “Papa would skin me if I left the sector without him or you to walk with me. What’s so special in that forest?”
“Nothing,” Ram says quickly.
“Does he live there?”
Ram is panicked. First the boys follow him there, now Daya knows. How much longer can he keep the secret?
There is nothing he can say. “Let’s join the game.”
They run all morning, stopping once or twice to hit a few rounds of gilli, picking up a little bit of money.
And it seems to make Daya forget about her questions, about Ram and Nek and the jungle. Even Ram forgets briefly, enjoy
ing the game and laughter and having Daya at his side again.
But then the factory whistle blows. Ram glances at the watch out of habit, before remembering that it is broken.
“I have to go!”
Daya throws up her hands. “But we’re just starting to have fun!”
“We’ll play again later,” Ram says. “I promise.”
“I just wish you’d tell me what’s so great about him,” Daya grumbles. Ram wishes he could too. He’d love to show Daya the statues and the walls and the garden. He’d love someone else to see it.
But he can’t. “Some other time.” He starts to run.
“Wait,” Daya shouts.
Ram pulls up. Daya rushes over, pushes the paper wrapper with the last two samosas at him. “Take them.”
“Thanks! And we’ll hit later. I swear it!”
When he gets back to the factory gate, a good many of the workers are already making their way out and up the street.
He recognizes the faces of the other men who work the same shift as Nek. They mill out slowly, empty tiffins rattling at their sides as they walk or cycle away. He wonders how Nek has so much energy for working all day and then making statues at night.
“I’ve told you a dozen times!” Ram hears yelling from over the wall. “It is undignified!”
Then Ram hears a voice he recognizes. “But they are broken, sahib.”
Ram edges around to peek. Nek stands with a man dressed in Western slacks and shirt. He wears a belt with a big round buckle. Both men have a hand on the bicycle that rests between them. The crate on the back sports an assortment of bicycle parts. Broken fenders, a gear missing half its teeth, part of a frame that was welded improperly. Ram understands immediately why Nek wants them. What he doesn’t understand is why the foreman is so angry about it.
“Whether they are broken or not is beyond the matter. The matter is that they do not belong to you! Haven’t I spoken to you about this before?”
“Yes, sir.”
The man leans over the bicycle. “Do you know how many men come to our gates every day asking for work?”
Nek catches Ram staring. They both freeze for a second before Nek drops his eyes. “No, sir.”
“You are lucky to have work at all! And no employee of the Hero Factory will leave looking like a lowly trash picker, is that clear?”
“But they are only going to be thrown out,” Nek pleads.
The boss grows livid. “You will be thrown out!” he roars. “If we weren’t so shorthanded with all those loafers off sick, I’d already have you out! This is your last warning. If I see so much as a single spoke in this basket of yours, you will no longer have a job. If you are collecting garbage, it means you are not working. And I will employ only men who work!”
Nek doesn’t argue. Instead he wheels the bicycle over to a rubbish barrel and slowly—as if it hurts him to do so—begins to transfer the contents. The foreman and guard glower, hands on their hips. Nek takes his time, placing each piece carefully in the barrel so as not to make a sound. When he is done, he wheels the bicycle back around to face the two men.
“Last warning,” the foreman says. “You are replaceable.”
Nek keeps his eyes down. “Yes, sahib.”
Without another word, the foreman stalks off. The guard turns away.
Ram feels he has seen something that he perhaps shouldn’t have. Wishes for some reason he could unsee it. But he can’t. He falls into step beside Nek, who has not yet mounted the bike.
They walk in silence past the shrine. At the corner, a bottle rocket explodes in the air above them. Ram glances back over his shoulder. Is Daya watching them now? But he doesn’t see her.
Ram holds up the samosas. “Here.”
Nek eyes them suspiciously.
“I didn’t steal them,” Ram says. “Honest, Uncle ji.”
Now Nek laughs, only once, and not with conviction, but it is enough to banish the sting of the scene they have just left. “I am tired enough of my own cooking that I might have made an exception. Chalo.”
Delicious,” Nek announces as he finishes the last corner of his samosa. “Though not as good as the ones made by the man in my sector. He uses plenty of coriander—always fresh. Like my wife.”
Ram’s hands fall still, a section of glittering wire frozen between his finger and thumb. Wife? Nek is married? He is sure that Nek has never mentioned a wife before. “You are married?”
Nek nods, not even registering that he just told Ram something so shattering. But it is. Ram is shaken by the understanding that Nek is not as alone in the world as he himself is. And he wonders why it bothers him so much to learn this.
“Ayushee,” he says. “We married four years ago.”
Ram forces his hands to resume cutting the pieces. Still, he tells himself, Nek spends his days at work and his nights here in the garden. She must be mean, like Mrs. Singh. Nek hasn’t even hinted at her existence in the whole month Ram has been working for him, so obviously he prefers Ram’s company to that of his wife. This makes Ram feel a little better.
“You’ve never mentioned her before.”
Nek considers, tilts his head. “Haven’t I?”
“No.”
“Huh,” Nek says. “Maybe talking about her makes me miss her more. But I think about her all the time. It is like breathing. You don’t tell yourself to breathe, but you keep going. She’s with me like that. And the baby, of course.”
Baby!? Ram fumbles a bangle and searches for it in the dirt at his feet.
“Why haven’t you seen them in so long?” Ram manages to ask.
“The village I came from is nearly a whole day’s journey by train. I cannot go more than once or twice a year.”
“They should move to Chandigarh, then.”
“We cannot afford it. I came here to work. It is cheaper for her to live there. I send most of my wages home. Someday when we save enough I can bring Ayushee and Vinod to the city.”
Vinod. A boy’s name. Nek has a son.
Ram wonders why it feels so much like a betrayal that the man already has a family hidden away. His fantasies about being secretly connected to Nek were ridiculous anyway. His daydreams about being someone special, like Rama, were just that—dreams. It is not Nek’s fault Ram is alone, after all. Still, the bead at his chest feels like ice against his skin.
“Your job is important then,” Ram says, recalling how the foreman at the factory scolded Nek. If he lost his job, he would not be able to send money to his family. If he lost his job, he would not be able to stay in Chandigarh at all. What would become of the garden then?
Nek sighs. “Yes. My job is important. But I don’t like to be away. That is why I felt so lucky when I found your money. That windfall was almost enough to cover the ticket completely.”
Ram feels awful. Awful that he gave Nek such a terrible time about spending his money. Awful that when he learned Nek spent it on a train ticket, he was angry, jealous even. Now that he knows who Nek’s going to see, he’s ashamed of the anger. But he’s also a tiny bit proud. After all, it was his money that made the visit possible.
“I wish I could go home more often. I miss them. More than Rama missed Sita even.”
They work in silence for a few minutes, Ram making room in his mind for all he has just learned, packing up silly flights of thought and making space for what is true and real.
He remembers the chunk of the story Singh told him. “But I thought Sita and Lakshmana went along with Rama when he was exiled.”
Nek skins the thinnest coating of concrete onto Sita’s arm. “You heard that part already?”
“Yes.” Ram scoots closer with the cut bangles.
“But not about how Lord Rama and Sita were separated?”
“Separated?” Ram asks. It doesn’t make sense. Lord Rama was powerful. Lord Rama bent the bow of Shiva. And they were in love. . . . And Lakshmana was there to look after both of them too. “How?”
A grin plays at the corner of
Nek’s mouth. And when the man speaks, his voice drops lower. “Not how,” he says, “who.”
A peacock shrieks in the distance. Ram jumps.
“Ravana.”
For a while, Rama and Sita and Lakshmana lived happily in the jungle. They built a beautiful hut near a stream where they drew fresh water. They gathered fruits and nuts and hunted game and caught fish. They had adventures and climbed the hilltops by day, and sang and danced in the evenings. Sita charmed the beasts of the jungle, so that even the tigers would let her stroke their bellies like kittens.
But not all the creatures of the jungle were so gentle.
One day, a demoness called Surpanakha wandered near where Rama was hunting. Instantly love-struck, she changed her form to that of a beautiful young woman and approached Rama.
“Marry me,” she commanded. Surpanakha was not used to asking. Or being denied. So imagine her surprise when Rama laughed in her beautiful face.
“I am already wed to the loveliest woman in all the world.”
The insulted Surpanakha began to transform, ready to pounce on the insulting man and rend him with her razor claws and sharp teeth. But Rama, perhaps out of pity, perhaps out of jest, said, “My brother Lakshmana is unmarried. And he is nearby. You might ask him.”
Surpanakha hurried off to find Lakshmana. She found him pleasing enough, and commanded that he marry her as well. Lakshmana also refused. “How could I marry the likes of you when I know what true happiness is because of Rama and Sita?”
Surpanakha’s disguise slipped, eyes growing buggy and red. “How dare you insult me?”
Lakshmana’s hand twitched for his dagger. “I mean no insult,” he said carefully. “If you knew Sita, you would not take it is as such.”
“Then I shall see this Sita for myself!” Surpanakha cried, growing into her true form. Yellow, warty skin. Stringy hair matted with the fur on her back. Rows of gray teeth dripped poison. “And we’ll see how her beauty compares with mine when I’ve finished with her!”
Lakshmana knew now he was staring into the eyes of a rakshasa. He swung out with his sword. The demoness dodged the killing blow, but Lakshmana’s blade sliced her nose cleanly off.
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