I do pay attention at school. I like going to school, mainly to see my friends. Isha and Sonal are my best friends and are in all my classes. We have great fun together but are careful to hold back on our git-mit when our Madams are teaching to avoid being seated apart from one another. Tina Madam is my favourite teacher. I think she’s smarter and prettier than the other teachers but she doesn’t act too proud. Her hair has shades of both brown and black, like the celebrities in Stardust magazine, and is cut in a steps style just below her shoulders. Every colour she wears seems to suit her creamy-creamy complexion. Isha says it’s too bad Tina Madam has that dark mole above her upper lip, not so much because it looks bad, but because it earned her the nickname that some of the girls secretly call her by. Girls like Primal can really be mean. It was stupid Primal ‘Potty Pants’ who started it one morning with the back row of girls she sat with who started to squirm and scream when a black spider crawled onto one of their desks. Someone blew the spider off the desk and as all eyes searched to see where it had landed, the back-row girls burst into laughter when Primal mocked under her breath that it had affixed itself to Tina Madam’s face. Of course, it really hadn’t. She was making fun of Tina Madam’s mole. Nevertheless, at that moment, Spiderwoman was born. Though Tina Madam didn’t hear her newly baptised name, she switched P.P.’s seat from the back row to the centre position of the front row, right in front of our seats. Seated amongst us, Primal became a sulky sourpuss but didn’t let out another peep. Since it was Tina Madam who had sent Primal home after the Potty Incident, we figured that it must have been a smart move on her part having P.P. sit in front of us. Since her relocation, our class has become pretty calm. Potty Pants rarely turns to face her friends in the back, maybe to avoid looking in my direction. To be honest, I’ve always been nervous around those mean girls, especially Primal, so I’m hoping they won’t mess with me anymore.
I want to be like that one day, just like Tina Madam. She’s kind of different from the other Madams. She’s one of the only teachers who never lays a finger on naughty students yet still has the most control over them. I suppose she kind of does have superpowers. Isha says that maybe Potty Pants named Tina Madam correctly as a superhero. I hope to have some superpowers of my own someday so that I can be as strong as Tina Madam whenever times are tough during my own life.
Naina
***
Having replaced the diary into the trunk, from her perch above, Naina watched the milk-boy ride by on his Hero Honda motorcycle, his metal milk canisters barely missing a stray dog absorbed in devouring a small casualty strewn on the street below. From a distance, from opposite ends of the colony, loudspeakers echoed the ritual morning prayers, both in Punjabi and in Hindi, as if in melodious harmony, sadly unachievable amongst some of their respective worshipers. In the neighbouring courtyard below, Naina watched in delight as Ramu meticulously stirred a savoury liquid concoction within a clay pot that partially concealed his pot belly. Ramu carefully added spices, a pinch at a time, with his stained, callused fingers. The aroma of ground cumin, coriander, tamarind and black salt powder drifted upwards, teasing Naina’s taste buds with the pani-puri he would sell later that day in the main bazaar, bustling with people and traffic. Perhaps this evening she would have a chance to relish in some of Ramu’s delights if she were asked to accompany Memsaab’s daughter-in-law to the market. Lost in thought, with her elbow resting on the veranda wall, Naina resisted the impulse to scream out as a small pebble shot past her. Was it him? Now standing alert, her eyes again searched the rooftop facing her own.
“Nainaaa, hurry up child, you’ll be late for Memsaab!” her mother shouted from the ground floor, as if sensing the sudden incident that had diverted her daughter’s attention.
“I’m coming Mummy!” Naina retorted, reluctantly severing her gaze from the familiar handsome eyes that had just met hers from a distance.
Naina’s body tensed up with the realization that the boy had caught sight of her. Even more disconcerting was the fact that this time, he had caught sight of her eyes searching for his. Impulsively, she turned her back towards him, positioning herself to descend the stairs. If only there was time to build up the courage to face him. She had wanted to for some days. Had she the courage, she would have looked straight into the boy's eyes, just as her favourite heroine Priyanka Chopra had done with her on-screen hero in the film Naina had recently seen with Memsaab’s daughters-in-law in Friend’s Cinema. Although Naina was taken to the film to mind the children, her attention was consumed by the romance flourishing on the screen. And now, while she may have dreamt of such a moment, never had she thought it would ever happen to her.
Today, however, Naina was forced to turn away, both to appease her mother’s growing impatience and to settle the sudden fluttering in her stomach. Still, despite the distance between herself and the boy, Naina’s heart could sense more than her eyes dared to confirm. Despite the severed gaze, she could sense a mischievous smile taking shape over his lips. With her back positioned towards him, her lips too curled upward, radiating warmth within her entire body. What was he thinking? Naina wondered. Might he really like me? Could such a dream of being with a handsome boy really come true?
“Naina, by God, if I have to listen to another complaint from Memsaab about your tardiness . . .” her mother hollered with growing restlessness.
Naina would have to go. She sighed, breathing heavily to keep pace with her racing heart. Before darting down the concrete steps, she could not resist the urge to catch one last glimpse. Success! The boy seemed to know that she would turn to face him, for when she did, their eyes locked, if only for a few seconds. For this, he rewarded her bravado with a playful wink just before Naina bolted down the stairs. This would surely carry her throughout the day, whatever it might bring.
“. . . and don’t run off without putting some food in your stomach, young lady! God knows you’ll need the fuel to keep going for that old woman!” her mother continued even before Naina made it down to the last step, her voice now filled with more concern than annoyance.
“Okay, okay Mummy,” Naina reassured from within the bathroom, recognizing the compassion in her mother's words.
She quickly lathered up using the squishy remnants of the Lifebuoy bar of soap, splashing herself with a few mugs of water. Despite the steady murmurs of her mother’s chiding, Naina’s dimples elevated her blushing cheekbones. Neither cold water nor a disfavored deep brown complexion would easily suppress her current state of exuberance. In her young heart, she carried a sense of hope, a dream, to love and to be loved.
***
Dear Diary:
His name is Sanjay. I want to think he likes me. I’ve never spoken to him though, so I’m not sure. But why else would he come up to the rooftop so early in the morning? Not to do any chores like me, that’s for sure. I don’t think he’s the type of boy who has ever been given a chore in his life! In fact, I have never seen any of the kids who live in this colony do any work. Why would they when they have people like us to do it for them? At first, I didn’t dare look up at him. Then one day he started playing music from his cell phone. When I glanced up towards the sound, I saw that he was staring right at me. It made me feel nervous and excited, all at once. I think I kind of froze and could feel my face get all hot. At that very instant, Asha appeared out of nowhere, and at the same time, Sanjay slipped away, casually running his fingers through his hair. I couldn’t stop my eyes from following him until he was gone. Asha gave my arm a sharp pinch. She told me not to be so stupid. That Sanjay was well past my reach and that he was only out for a bargain. She sneered towards him as he vanished. I don’t know what her problem is. She is my sister, so I don’t hate her or anything. Maybe it’s dumb for me to hope to be with someone like Sanjay, but I just wish that I had a chance to meet him. Wish I knew if he really likes me.
Naina
***
Cool marble met her arrival upon entering Memsaab Prakash Gill’s home where Naina slip
ped off the worn-out flip-flops that matched the condition of her feet. A sense of serenity still lingered throughout the home. A flurry of cockroaches inhabiting the dark stone counter and floor quickly sought refuge as Naina set foot in the kitchen. Without pause or reflection she settled into her daily routine.
The mountainous pile of dishes stacked in the sink usually garnered her attention first. However, in a household still not fully awake on an early Sunday morning, it was also the riskiest of chores. Strategically, Naina selected and gently pulled out one item at a time, every selection threatening to topple the teetering tower of dishes. Intertwined white plastic crockery, chinaware cups and saucers, and an assortment of stainless steel bowls, cups, plates, and utensils, all glistened with the turmeric based lamb curry and sticky, sweet syrup from the gulab jamun that she had served the family the previous evening. Though she had emptied the sink before leaving on Saturday evening, just as she did every evening, a large household assured her that she would be greeted to a full sink the next day. Naina maneuvered her grip carefully, expertly, without hesitation. She had mastered such tasks since the age of seven while working alongside her mother in Memsaab’s stately home centrally located within the gated community of Rosewater Colony.
While consumed in work, Naina had the opportunity to let her mind run free. As she washed away the sloppy remains, thoughts of ‘Jenga’ ran through her mind. She was reminded of the game that Sonia, Memsaab’s Canadian granddaughter, who was visiting one summer, had said that Naina would easily grasp.
“You’d be a master at ‘Jenga’, Naina! I can’t believe how you maneuver through that pile of dishes without making them all come crashing down!” Sonia had praised.
“Oh, it’s not that difficult when you do it all day,” Naina had replied with a shy smile.
“My mom says that my head must be in the clouds when I do the dishes at home. She says that the whole house could be washed with the amount of water I use up,” Sonia admitted with a frown.
“You do housework?” Naina asked with a look of surprise.
“Yeah, we all do. I mean, someone has to do it,” Sonia explained. “Dad cleans the bathrooms and vacuums, Mom takes care of the dusting and laundry and I usually get stuck with the dishes. But only when I don’t have a tonne of homework.”
Naina very much admired Sonia for her grace and charm. What especially intrigued her was how simple and unpretentious Sonia seemed. Unlike other members of Memsaab’s family who were curt in most conversational exchanges with Naina, Sonia would take the time to share and listen. The girls were roughly the same age. Sonia took a true interest in asking Naina about everyday things and happenings while also sharing aspects about her own life. She shared stories about her life in Canada, about her friends, school and home. Sonia talked about her love of books and her dream to be a writer, though her parents were expecting that she would pursue a career in medicine.
“I really don’t want to be a doctor,” Sonia had shared. “My parents just don’t get it, that I can’t even stand the sight of blood,” she added, to which the girls laughed.
“What about you, Naina, what do you want to be later in life?”
Naina paused and looked intently toward Sonia. Never had she been asked such a question. She was both struck and pleased with the thought that Sonia believed that she, Naina, would decide and control her own destiny. What will I be? Naina ruminated, pleased by the thought. Though only a matter of moments transpired before Naina spoke, she felt herself reply with a newfound inspiration.
“I want to be someone important . . . someone big,” Naina confided, for the first time to anyone, even herself. “I want to be happy,” she added softly, with a broad smile.
“Me too!” Sonia declared in agreement.
While others napped in the afternoon, Sonia would continue to mill about in the kitchen or on the rooftop with Naina as she completed her chores. “Shall I make you some cold lemonade?” Naina would offer.
“Sure, great idea!” Sonia would say with great delight, and the two would exchange laughs over simple talk as girls could easily do.
Over the years, during each of her visits to India, Sonia had presented Naina with a gift from Canada. Naina had cherished each one, not for its material value, but in the realization that Sonia, an unrelated, privileged young woman from some place foreign, had valued and believed in her. Her most cherished gift from Sonia was a leather-bound journal.
“For you Naina, when I’m not here and you have secrets to share,” Sonia explained when she presented the book to her. “It’s called a diary. I have one too that I write in almost every day when I get a chance. Just be sure to hide it somewhere safe,” she winked.
Since receiving the diary, and concealing it in the old rusty trunk on the factory’s rooftop, Naina had used it to put her thoughts, dreams and hopes to words that she could not share with others. The memory brought a smile to Naina’s face as she worked. It was not often that she was paid a compliment or was appreciated by anyone outside her own family.
Naina’s thoughts were quickly interrupted when Memsaab made her first appearance for the morning, strolling into the kitchen with an empty cup and saucer in hand. Her contact with Naina, as with the other women of the household, was rather mechanical. Having shared in the woman's company for much of her young life, Naina had always regarded Memsaab as somewhat stern, always possessing a steely edge. Despite the obvious luxuries available to her, it seemed that life had somehow hardened the old woman. Any rare smile that she imparted was usually reserved for her grandchildren. Perhaps Memsaab was not much different from her own mother, Naina mused.
“Naina, use the bigger cooker to fit in a few extra potatoes today,” Memsaab began, without greeting. “There will be extra mouths to feed for breakfast. And as soon as you finish up in here, I’ve left the bucket of laundry for you in the lobby. The girls have also left their buckets upstairs. Be sure to hang them quickly before the rain,” Memsaab casually instructed, depositing the dirty cup and saucer on the counter as she left.
Memsaab was usually the first to rise each morning. She had usually bathed and had already washed both her and her husband’s clothes by hand by the time Naina arrived each day. “These girls today” – meaning both her daughters-in law and the help – “have little sense in how to clean the stains from clothing without fraying and tearing them to bits in that washing machine . . . better to do it myself,” Memsaab would complain to Naina.
The grey-haired woman prided herself in no longer having to be familiar with all things associated with the kitchen since she had arranged the marriages of both of her sons. Naina had heard Memsaab declare that all domestic matters were now the concerns of her daughters-in-law, implying that she was above such menial chores. While lounging on her bed, Memsaab would claim ignorance when visiting Aunties would enquire about lunch menus. Naina had heard the woman telling guests that she hadn’t laid a foot in the kitchen for years now, leaving such details to those who now possessed such responsibilities. Nevertheless, preparing her husband’s early morning chai was not a duty that Memsaab could easily relinquish. Grudgingly, it was a task that only she was obliged to execute; a stubborn demand, it appeared to Naina, from the man Memsaab had wed some forty years ago.
Her focus unwavering, Naina continued with the immediate task of washing dishes, acknowledging Memsaab’s instructions respectfully with a, “Very well, Memsaab Ji.”
“Be sure to hold your tongue young lady; only speak when you are questioned. These bigger people don’t have an interest in our little people’s chit-chat,” Naina recalled her mother counselling her from a young age. She was taught to always address her elders, particularly the ‘bigger people’, with the respectful title of ‘Ji’. “Never respond with a solitary ‘yes’ or ‘no’,” her mother would say. “Always use ‘Memsaab Ji’ as respectful acknowledgement of Prakash Gill.” ‘Memsaab’ was a formal title for women such as Prakash Gill who were in a position of authority, and ‘Ji’ was
tacked on as an added measure of deference.
As the household began to stir, Naina remained consumed in her work. Her jet-black locks, pulled back neatly in a waist long braid, glistened from the rays of faint light that fought to penetrate through barsati storm clouds. The light beamed through the kitchen window, illuminating both her coconut oil infused hair and the perspiration already beading on her forehead. Her long-lashed mahogany eyes sparkled and her dark caramel skin glowed, highlighting the chiseled features of her oval face. With her petite frame, Naina tiptoed before the emptied sink, her slender fingers scrubbing away the grease with a sense of confidence that she, otherwise, at times seemed to lack in herself.
From the front gate came the jarring blare of the door buzzer. Naina quickly dried her wet hands against her kameez and dashed out towards the front entrance. Several callers were received throughout the day. Some came to make deliveries such as the milk boy who would fill household steel pots and pitchers provided by residents with frothy milk from tall metal canisters. Others, such as the dhobi man, came to collect garments to be ironed which would be bundled and tied within a dupatta that had been cast away from the wardrobe of one of the women in the household. In this case, however, the face awaiting entry behind the gate was Rahul’s. The two greeted one another with a smile. Rahul tipped the messenger hat he wore at Naina and a sense of ease between them meant that no words were necessary. With a nod, Naina directed Rahul to follow her through the courtyard.
With her hand, Naina motioned towards a rattan chair, signalling Rahul to be seated outside the main door. “’I’ll be back,” she said, though the daily ritual was a familiar one.
Rahul was grateful to rest for a few minutes under the shade of a tall ornamental tree. The tree’s branches, heavy with a plethora of pink blooms, diminished the pungency of perspiration that had bled through the underarms of his half-sleeve shirt. As he did each morning, Rahul had come to pick up a thermos of hot spiced chai and biscuits for Vicky Gill. While Naina prepared and parceled the items, he dabbed his face and neck with a cotton handkerchief and ran a small comb through his hair. He quickly returned the comb to the pocket of his shirt as the door to the front entry of the home swung open. Rahul respectfully averted his eyes, avoiding a direct gaze towards Naina as she approached him with a tray in hand.
Walking Through and Other Stories Page 2