Outside In

by Jennifer Bradbury

  Lakshmana did not hesitate.

  Lifting his own sword, he rushed forward, swift as an eagle diving. The demon swung, but he was slow, his eyes betraying his movements before he made them. Lakshmana ducked the blow, spun inside the monster’s reach, and jabbed with his sword.

  The demon fell, puffed into a cloud of red dust, and disappeared before the other rakshasas even realized their champion was no more.

  But one of the demons instantly understood.

  A roar thundered down on the assembled army, and a new figure appeared atop the walls surrounding the palace.

  All twenty of Ravana’s eyes focused on Rama. His twenty hands clutched an arsenal of wicked weapons. Even his own rakshasas cowered.

  Lakshmana returned to his brother’s side. They did not have to speak to understand each other. Lakshmana placed a hand on his brother’s shoulder in blessing and then went to stand with Hanuman.

  Ravana bounded down from the wall and flew at Rama.

  From the first stroke, both Rama and Ravana understood how well matched they were. They met blow for blow, strength for strength. Ravana knew god or demon could not hurt him, so how did this upstart mortal manage to withstand him? And Rama knew that it was for this moment that the holy man had trained him. It was for this moment that his own path had led him into exile. Perhaps even for this very moment that he had been born.

  Along with his terrible weapons, Ravana wielded powerful magic, casting curses at Rama. But Rama was unafraid. He had learned well, and his heart was pure, so he parried every curse with the good magic he had learned from the holy man and deflected the evil.

  Finally Ravana had used every weapon he possessed. They lay broken and useless around him. He had exhausted every ounce of bad magic he could muster.

  Yet Rama still stood before him.

  And Rama had a single arrow remaining.

  He prayed, nocked the arrow, and launched it high into the heavens. Its song whistled clear and bright and sent all the other demons to the ground, clutching their ears in pain. As it arced past the sun and bent back to earth, it picked up speed, homing straight for Ravana. The demon king tried to run, but the arrow followed him, picking up speed as it drew nearer and nearer.

  The arrow pierced Ravana’s belly, right at the navel, and the fearsome demon king burst into flame.

  The light was so great that all the demons scattered at once. They knew their time had ended. Their king had fallen. The fireball bloomed bright and intense for a second more before it consumed itself and vanished.

  The quiet held a second longer before the monkey army erupted in celebration. The throng around Rama and Lakshmana danced and shouted and screeched wildly.

  They were so joyous and noisy that for a moment Rama didn’t hear the voice calling to him.

  But then he saw Sita standing in the gate of the ruined palace. And he smiled. He broke free, ran toward her, and embraced her at last.

  Two days pass. Someone feeds Ram, gives him water, but his eyes won’t focus and his tongue won’t cooperate and he drops off before he can make sense of where he is or what has happened.

  His adventures of the last few weeks muddle together with Rama’s in his dreams. The monkey army. The statues. The bridge. The jungle. The battle. Shiva’s bow and Shiva’s head. Ravana’s defeat. He is half-aware of someone telling him the story, but he slips in and out of sleep so freely that it all gets mixed together.

  On the third day, he wakes to familiar voices. Gray light washes through a single window.

  Nek’s room, Ram realizes. He is at Nek’s. But how? He struggles to sit up, pushing up against the cotton pallet he’s been laid on, the blankets tangling around his arms.

  “Hey, Papa!”

  Daya? And Singh?

  “How did I get here?”

  Nek sits in the chair where Ram had camped before.

  “We brought you,” Singh says, relief flooding his voice. “You were very sick.”

  “You caught my fever,” Nek says.

  Ram looks at Daya. “Do you have it now?”

  She shakes her head. “Papa took you to the doctor. They knew what medicine you needed and gave me something to keep me from getting so sick. I only threw up once,” she says proudly.

  “But how did you find Nek uncle? I never told you where he lives.”

  Daya smiles. “His name and address are etched on the frame of the bike. Right along the top tube.”

  Ram remembers the writing there. “Oh.”

  “Once we could see you were going to be all right, it was easy enough to find Nekji,” Singh explains.

  Now Ram understands that if they are all here together, Singh and Daya will have told Nek what he did. How he led those people to the garden.

  He cannot look at Nek. He can’t quite figure out how to ask the question. “Is Sita all right?”

  “Sita is fine.”

  Ram finally meets Nek’s eyes. “I didn’t know what else to do.”

  “I know.”

  Ram waits for him to say more. Waits for Nek to tell him it was a stupid idea, or that he should have asked Nek first. “I thought if I could get him to buy her for the museum, then it would be enough money to pay off the gang. Enough for you to stay. That you could still take care of Ayushee and Vinod and still stay in Chandigarh and keep working on the garden. But then that boy and his uncle showed up so early and Singh uncle said no and I—”

  “Stop babbling, Ram,” Daya says. “Can I tell him?” she asks Singh and Nek.

  Both nod.

  “That bully’s uncle. He’s Papa’s boss.”

  Ram’s eyes study the pattern on the quilt. “I recognized him.”

  “And Nek uncle has been fired from the factory.”

  Tears prick hot and angry at Ram’s eyes. But Nek and Singh are still smiling.

  What is going on?

  “And Nek uncle won’t sell any of the statues,” Daya continues.

  “But—”

  “Really, Ram!” Daya is properly annoyed now. “If you keep interrupting, I won’t be able to finish.”

  Nek laughs. Singh clucks at Daya.

  “That commissioner liked Nek’s statues. Vijay was so mad! You should have seen it, Ram. It was wonderful!”

  “He liked them? Your commissioner?”

  “Of course he liked them, dummy!” Daya says. “Everyone liked them. Rakeshji, Anikji . . . all of them. And everyone else who’s been there since likes them too.”

  “Everyone else?” Ram’s voice is small. More people have come? He glances at Nek, but the man’s expression is unreadable.

  “Some of the city people are really mad. That forest is city property. They were going to finish the street and build a new sector next year. They called Nek uncle a—” She pauses, looks to her father. “What did they call him, Papa?”

  “A thieving upstart,” Singh and Nek say in chorus.

  “But some of them say Nek uncle is a genius. They like all the statues so much that they want the garden to stay! They want it to be a park so everybody in town will want to come and see. Maybe even everybody in all of India!”

  Ram can’t believe it.

  Nek can’t sit quietly any longer. “They are too hopeful.”

  “It appears your friend may soon have a new job, Ram,” Singh says. “As an artist.”

  An artist! “Do artists get paid more than factory workers?”

  “But it is more than just money!” Daya is bouncing up and down. “Workers to help him, and trucks to bring the rubbish from around the city so he doesn’t have to haul it on his bicycle.”

  Ram is too shocked to speak, to even smile.

  He’d failed. It had all gone so wrong. And now this?

  It is more fantastic and magical than anything out of Rama’s tale.

  Singh places a hand on Daya’s shoulder. “We should go, Daya,” he says. “Ram needs to rest.”

  “He’s been resting for three days,” she says.

  “Daya.” Singh’s voi
ce is quiet. “They need to talk.”

  “Acha.” Daya climbs up off the floor. “I don’t have to go back to school until next week. So hurry up and get better. There are lots of kids out in the park during break. Easy pickings.”

  “Daya!” Singh’s voice is sharper now.

  Ram can’t help smiling now. Daya flicks her braids and goes to the door as Singh and Nek shake hands.

  When Daya and Singh have gone, Ram sees that Nek is holding something.

  Ram’s bead. Still strung on the loop of red cord he usually wears around his neck. They must have taken it off him when he slept.

  “Sri Singh asked if I was the one who made it.”

  Ram fights the urge to snatch it from Nek’s hand as his face flushes hot with embarrassment. How many times had he hoped the same thing?

  “What did you tell him?”

  “That I didn’t.”

  And even though Ram had thought the idea stupid himself, it still hurts to have the possibility—however slim—struck down. “I didn’t say you did.”

  “It would have made a great story, though,” Nek says. “To find out we were somehow linked because of this little piece of art.”

  Ram wipes his eyes.

  “She gave it to you, didn’t she?” Nek asks. “The girl?”

  Ram’s chest tightens. “She isn’t coming back, is she?”

  Nek waits a long time before speaking. “She would have if she could, Ram. I know it.”

  “I won’t ever find her, will I?”

  Nek does not answer for a long time. “I’m sorry, Ram. I know what it means to lose someone. I know how that kind of hope hurts.” Ram nods. He remembers how sad Nek was when he spoke of the sister he lost when his family left Pakistan.

  “Why didn’t you show me before?”

  Ram struggles to find the words. “It’s stupid. I thought . . . When you started telling me about Rama and how he was secretly Vishnu . . . maybe I was secretly . . . somebody instead of a nobody with no family.”

  Nek doesn’t ask him to finish. Ram blinks hard.

  After a beat, Nek speaks. “You were somebody to Pehn.” Nek leans forward and puts the bead in Ram’s hand. “And you are somebody to me.”

  Ram can’t speak.

  “Besides, Vinod is much too small to work for me yet, so you will have to do.”

  Ram wipes his eyes, sniffs noisily.

  Nek pats his shoulder.

  Finally Ram manages to speak. “A happy ending,” he manages. “Just like Rama’s and Sita’s.”

  “But you don’t know the ending yet,” Nek says.

  Ram sits up. “You told me,” he realizes. “As I slept. Rama defeated Ravana. He and Sita were reunited.”

  Nek smiles. “That’s the victory. We celebrate the victory at Dussehra. But it is not the end. The end is what we celebrate at Diwali. The most important part of the story.”

  “What’s more important than defeating Ravana and rescuing Sita?”

  Nek swallows, blinks twice before he speaks. “Finding home.”

  Sita, Rama, Lakshmana, and Hanuman left Lanka. The monkey army raced ahead, heralding the victory. As word of the death of the demon king traveled throughout the jungle, the birds and animals gathered to salute the victors on their return journey. And when the news reached the towns and villages, they, too, came out to see the heroes, showering them with flowers and gifts and food, eager for a glimpse of beautiful Sita and the mighty trio of warriors.

  When at last they arrived at Mount Rishyamukha, they feasted and celebrated for weeks with the monkey kingdom. But after a while, Lakshmana pulled his brother aside.

  “It is time for us to go home.”

  “Why rush back to our hut in the jungle? We have friends here now.”

  “No!” Lakshmana smiled. “Home. The fourteen years have ended. We can go back to Ayodhya.”

  And Rama realized, with all the many adventures, and now with his joy at rescuing Sita, he had lost track of the days and months they’d been away. “Can it be?”

  “Yes,” Lakshmana replied. “Are you ready to be king?”

  “I am ready to do my duty,” he replied.

  King Sugriva was sad to lose his new friends, and even sadder when Hanuman decided to make the journey with them. But in his gratitude, he gave them a great chariot and swift horses to ease their journey north.

  Eager now to see Ayodhya again, the foursome traveled swiftly, even at night. Still, the animals lined the way through the wilderness, and as they passed the settlements and other kingdoms, the people all rushed out to see them. At dusk and through the darkness, their admirers bore oil lamps to show the way.

  Soon the whole country had heard of the wonderful victory of Rama over Ravana, of the light over the darkness. And in addition to coming out to pay honor to the heroes, they lit even more lamps, the light itself paying tribute. Millions of tiny clay oil lamps carpeted the countryside, floated along the great rivers, dotted the plains like a blanket of stars, and climbed up the slopes of the foothills.

  The lights led all the way back to Ayodhya. When Rama, Lakshmana, Sita, and Hanuman drew within sight of the kingdom, it was clear that they, too, had heard about the victory and the coming return of their true king. The entire city had been polished clean. Oil lamps glittered from every window, atop every wall, along every path.

  And so it was that Rama followed the lights back home. After fourteen long years in exile, after a great many adventures, after making many new friends and ridding the world of terrible enemies, Rama was finally back in the place he belonged.

  ONE YEAR LATER

  Festival season has come again. Worshippers carry a Ganesha idol on their shoulders as they make their way up the lane. Ram pedals the bike through the traffic circle with Daya perched on the handlebars. He reaches up to loosen his tie, fingers checking the cord and the beads. Nek made him a new one to hang beside Pehn’s. He’s let her go, but he still wears the bead, only now in memory instead of hope of finding her. It aches, that understanding that she really is gone. It grabs at his heart when he least expects it.

  But having other family makes the sadness bearable.

  His books and empty lunch tiffin rattle in the wire basket on the back of the bike as he rides. Ayushee is a much better cook than Nek. Lunch is easily the best part of Ram’s school day, though playing in the yard during recess is all right too. The other kids still sneer at him because he is so behind, but they tolerate him because he is so good at games. They like him a lot better when he isn’t winning their pocket money. And Ram tolerates the lessons well enough, even though there are not enough stories and too many exercises to write out. But he figures that if Rama could last fourteen years in exile, he can get through a few hours of school every day. And like Rama, he doesn’t have to endure it alone. Daya, Ram was surprised to learn, is as feared and respected as kids twice her size and age. So it’s almost better than having Lakshmana at his side. Even Vijay leaves him alone now.

  He slows down long enough for Daya to spring off the handlebars when they arrive at her father’s building.

  “I’ll ask Papa if I can come today!” She bounds up the stairs.

  “Should I wait?” Ram asks, checking his watch. This one is different. A solid old metal one that he winds every night. Singh found it and had it refurbished for Ram’s birthday this year. It keeps perfect time.

  “Nahi,” Daya says as Anik opens the door for her, waving at Ram. “We’ll come when we can.”

  Ram pushes off, rounds the corner.

  He rings his bell as he passes Rakesh, who lifts the metal tongs in salute. The guard at the factory nods as he passes.

  He makes a tight turn around the corner by the shrine.

  The new road is finished. The dirt and gravel chasm between what used to be the end of the city and the forest is gone. A few new buildings have sprung up, but the trees and vines hang as lush and thick as before. The parking area is almost done, but Ram still favors his old paths. He won’
t be able to use them much longer. The walls enclosing the edges of the garden are coming along quickly now that Nek has so many men to carry out his plans.

  They’ve widened the path from the road into the forest, but the tall rosewood still marks the way, branches arcing over the path, the leaves whispering a welcome now instead of the warning they once did. Ram rides under the branches and into the forest. The old tarp and jumble of supplies have been replaced by a stout workshop and even a little office for Nek. In the dirt outside, a pretty woman crouches, passing a ball of yarn with a chubby little boy, drool shining on his chin.

  “Where is he?” Ram dismounts. He sheds his school blazer, kicks off his shoes, and peels off his socks. Of all the changes over the last year, wearing shoes and socks has been the hardest one to adjust to.

  “You have to change clothes before you go to help him.” Ayushee tries to sound firm, but she isn’t very good at it.

  “I won’t get too dirty, Auntie ji,” Ram promises.

  Ayushee scoops up Vinod. “He’s up with Shiva. They’ve been waiting for you.”

  Ram rubs the top of Vinod’s head and takes off.

  The path is paved now, and Ram knows the way well enough. He should. He helped lay the stone. When he reaches the spot, he stops. The walls run canyon high on both sides, sculpted out of cement and the burlap sacks the cement came in. They ripple down to a stream that meanders by in lazy curves. Above the stream stands a set of figures, water jugs balanced on their heads. Even higher up, Lord Shiva stands vigil.

  “Where have you been, slowpoke?” Nek calls down. “We are almost ready!”

  Ram climbs up to where Nek and two of his men wait. They are muddy but smiling.

  “Is it done?” Ram asks.

  Nek calls down to someone on the other side at the bottom of the slope. “Now!”

  The man at the bottom pulls a cord that starts the pump. Ram can hear the chuffing of the motor faintly, but a whooping and gurgling sound as well, and then the water begins to flow from where they stand. It cascades from mighty Shiva’s feet, pours over the edge, and plummets down. Soon it runs steadily, the water flowing ceaselessly, filling the jars of the water bearers below and running off into the stream, then being pumped back up to the top to make the circuit again.