5 to 1

by Holly Bodger

  See a future

  I don’t want for myself.

  “It’s hard to imagine that Papa

  was once a star here,” Surina says.

  “The Able Bala.

  That’s what they called him.”

  “Mighty,” I correct her.

  “They called him Mighty.”

  I know this.

  He has shown me the box of glory

  hidden inside his closet.

  Tucked away where reality—

  and Nani—

  can’t see.

  I know he misses those days. Know

  he sneaks off to the market

  so he can trade memories

  with his former fans.

  Surina doesn’t know this.

  Or doesn’t care.

  She rolls her eyes

  as if it isn’t possible that

  a man was once

  loved.

  honored.

  celebrated.

  As if it isn’t possible that

  a man could want to be

  loved.

  honored.

  celebrated

  once again.

  “So why didn’t you listen to Nani

  and pick cards like she told you to do?”

  That’s what I ask Surina,

  and I don’t need to tell her that

  I’m talking about her final Test.

  She waves my words away

  as if I’d offered her more tea.

  “Then I’d be a cheater,

  and I promised Mummy-ji

  I’d be fair.”

  I want to laugh at the irony.

  I’m sure Mummy did, too.

  To Surina,

  fair

  is the weather.

  fair

  is a complexion.

  fair

  is not

  something you are;

  something you do.

  “So that’s it?” I say as the puzzle

  pieces slip into place.

  “You were going to pick cards,

  but Mummy said she would

  never

  forgive you if you did?

  You picked chess so you could

  show her that you

  weren’t a cheater like Nani?”

  Surina shrugs.

  “Would it not have been better

  to cheat

  for a life of love

  than play fair

  and get one of hate?

  Because it’s true—

  this happy-wife thing,

  it’s all an act?”

  Surina examines her manicure.

  “Happiness is

  food.

  a home.

  clean clothes.

  I have all of those.”

  I slap away her hand.

  “You don’t believe that.

  You were the one

  who went on State radio and said

  you couldn’t wait for your Tests.

  You told all of the girls in Koyanagar

  that you knew you’d find

  love

  in yours.”

  Surina’s blue eyes grow clear

  as she snaps her response.

  “Love won’t give you a daughter,

  and only a daughter

  will keep you alive.

  “If you think you’re here to find

  love,

  you’ve missed the point of these Tests.

  “You’re here to find a man

  to put charms on your wrist

  and yira in your safe.

  That’s the only thing that matters

  in Koyanagar.”

  Her words leave the taste

  of bile in my throat.

  Has marriage turned

  my own sister

  into Nani?

  Has it made her give up

  on happiness?

  Would it do the same to me?

  No.

  I didn’t want—

  expect?—

  love

  from these Tests—

  from this life?—

  but that doesn’t mean

  I will accept misery instead.

  Folding my arms across my chest,

  I become a stubborn camel as I say,

  “I won’t do it,” half to myself.

  Surina laughs.

  “You’ve been sheltered.

  So was I.

  A luxurious home.

  Private school.

  Gifts of gold.

  But if your husband’s family told you

  they’d starve if not for you,

  you’d understand why you must

  have a daughter.”

  Her hand moves to her belly

  and I wonder

  if I was wrong?

  if the thing that’s empty

  is a little higher

  than her waist?

  “Are you pregnant?” I ask her just

  before she turns away.

  before she drops her hand.

  Nods her head.

  Speaks again.

  I open my mouth

  to yell.

  to cheer.

  to congratulate her.

  Nani has spoken of nothing

  but this for two whole years.

  “You cannot tell anyone,” Surina says

  before I can speak.

  “Not until I’m sure it’s a girl.”

  With a furrow of my brow, I say,

  “They’ll find out if he’s not.

  You can’t hide after

  he’s born!”

  She responds in a tone

  so close

  to Nani’s

  it coils a chill around my spine.

  “I am the Poster Girl of Koyanagar.

  I may not have chosen

  the ideal husband,

  but I will not

  make another mistake.

  I will not have a baby boy.”

  “You don’t know for sure.

  You might—”

  She cuts me off,

  her words slicing

  like the edge of a knife.

  “I

  Will

  Not

  Have

  A

  Baby

  Boy.”

  I open my mouth.

  It takes a minute

  before her meaning

  slices through my brain;

  before words

  slide off my tongue.

  “But that’s illegal.

  Impossible.

  People might hope—even try—

  to conceive a girl,

  but they wouldn’t—”

  I shake my head.

  “It’s impossible.

  Not even at the market.”

  Surina smiles.

  Not a happy smile. A smile

  of knowledge.

  of power.

  of experience?

  “You should listen to Nani-ji.

  Anything’s possible

  if you have money in your safe.”

  I shake my head.

  Say, “Nai. Not that.

  That’s why Koyanagar exists.

  That’s why we have the wall

  to prevent it.”

  Surina points to the field

  as if the grass

  has secrets of its own.

  “You saw that disabled boy

  competing for you.

  Do you think a mother would want

  a boy like that in her belly?

  “This is the real reason

  the ratio will soon

  be down to

  three to one.

  “It’s still happening

  to the unwanted.

  The only difference is

  they’re no longer girls.”

  I open my mouth to reply—to ask her

  if she has been pregnant before.

  if she has done that befo
re.

  But there are no words

  big enough

  to fill the crater

  in my stomach.

  Surina leaves me boiling

  so she can fill her glass

  with more sherbet.

  I wait in place.

  Wait to be called to my seat.

  To do as I’m told.

  Because I’m Sudasa the Obedient.

  (More like Sudasa the Fool.)

  I see Nani

  sitting comfortably

  with her best friend, Smirk, and

  I want to

  stomp.

  pour the pitcher of ice water over her head.

  I want to

  show her

  her Frankenstein.

  Make her see that everything—

  the Tests,

  the wall,

  the deaths—

  everything was supposed to be

  worth the price

  of keeping history

  buried with our ancestors.

  But it wasn’t.

  Instead of fixing things,

  of making changes,

  of making improvements,

  all they’ve done

  has been to break them

  in reverse.

  19

  I enter the locker room twenty steps behind the boy in blue. There are two guards between us, both dressed in the regimental gold and black that’s worn only for ceremonial duties. They walk with their right hands clutching their lathis so we know they won’t put up with any fights. It’s not that they don’t like fights. These guys eat, drink, and breathe blood. They just don’t want it wasted somewhere that the audience can’t enjoy it.

  The guards have nothing to fear from me. He may be the most arrogant, conniving, ruthless boy I’ve ever met, but that doesn’t mean I have a reason to fight him. Not now. He got the five rocks he wanted. I got the none I wanted. It was close, though. For a minute there, when the girl was standing in front of me with her eyes all big and brown and the five rocks in her smooth palm, I was sure she was going to give them to me. Part of me wanted to let her, if only so I could see the look on his face when she did. Bet he wouldn’t have waltzed in here with his sneer then! Still, it doesn’t make sense that she would even consider giving them to me. Could she be finally realizing he’s not what he pretends to be? That he’s what Appa calls a snake resting in the sun? One that’s curled into a ball on a nice, sunny rock, luring you into believing that you can tiptoe by?

  I stop at the locker that has Group #8, Contestant Five scrawled on a piece of beige tape. When this stadium was used for cricket, these lockers probably had brass nameplates with fancy calligraphy spelling names like the Mighty Bala. They probably had leather benches and big televisions and tables full of samosas and sugarcane juice. Not anymore. We boys are like traveling cattle. We’re not stopping for long and will soon be replaced by a fresh herd.

  On the wall next to my locker is one of the same schedules that are plastered all over the walls and doors of the stadium. They used thick, cream-colored paper and gold calligraphy so the audience will forget that they’re spending their Tuesday sweating on a hard bench seat, and so we boys would forget that we’re spending it fighting for our lives. The precious girls have nothing to forget. They spent the morning in sheltered boxes while male servants used palm leaves to provide them with a gentle breeze.

  I run my finger down the program. It says we have a thirty-minute break before the third test. Really, the officials need time to clear out the injured and disqualified, and by “clear out” I mean ship them off to the assignment center so they can find out how they’re spending the rest of their lives, short as they may be. No one actually cares if we get a break, and I can’t imagine what the girls need a break from. Occasionally watching us between sips of lime sherbet? Yeah, must be exhausting. That’s probably the real reason the wedding is a month after the tests. It’s not because they’ve analyzed the girls’ exact times of birth and have decided it’s an auspicious date for a marriage. It’s because the girls need to recuperate after leaving their air-conditioned homes for three days in a row.

  I open my locker and glance in the cracked mirror on the inside of the door. There’s a trace of blood above my lip. I don’t bother to wipe it away. It’s more me than this haircut and these clothes. I squeeze the bridge of my nose. Although my eyes water, I can tell there’s no break. I laugh to myself as I imagine what Appa would say if he found out I broke my nose for a fourth time. He was always saying to the men at the market, “My boy, he has a body of brick and a nose of glass.” In fact, he said it so many times that some of the men took to asking me if it was going to break if the rains fell too hard. Although it was kind of annoying, I didn’t want to ask Appa to stop. I am everything to him. I bet there aren’t many boys in this country who could make such a claim.

  Ripping my team number off first, I remove my kurta and then turn it over so I can check for bloodstains. There are several drips on the front, but they barely show on the bright red cotton. I wish they’d assigned me yellow. Appa says an honest man wears his scars on the outside, and I’m not ashamed of getting bloody, any more than I am of having to work. I would be more ashamed if I came here to cheat, all so I could spend my life letting some girl boss me around.

  I glance in the mirror again. The boy in blue is looking in his as well. He’s preening the front of his hair as if he’s a peacock about to go on display. I bet nothing would make him happier than a life of guaranteed nothing. Sure, he’ll get to prance through the market and bark instructions at the coachman. I’m sure she has one—a girl like that. She might even have menservants who cook and clean and shop and respond to everything she demands with “Yes, lady. Anything you want, lady.” The only thing her husband will have to do is sire some daughters, and then his life will be done. He’ll have no purpose other than as a father, and what purpose is that, really? The women make all the decisions. They wouldn’t even need us if they weren’t so desperate to produce more girls. It’s their own fault this isn’t as easy as it used to be. Before the wall went up and it became illegal—really illegal—to interfere with a pregnancy, doctors they deported, like Amma’s boss, had machines that could tell if a woman was pregnant with a boy or girl long before the baby was big enough to make the woman’s belly swell. If a woman didn’t like what the machine found, the doctor took care of it for her.

  After Amma’s boss lost his medical license, his patients claimed they’d been tricked by him. They thought his machine was taking pictures to make sure their babies were healthy. They said they allowed him to poke at their insides for the same reason and even agreed to take the pills he gave them because they thought the pills would make their babies stronger. This didn’t happen. By the end of the day, every single one of his patients said she was visited by the blood.

  I was barely five when this happened, but I still remember Amma crying every day. She said the women were all lying. They begged to see the doctor. Some slept on the doorstep of the clinic, hoping to convince him to fit them in. Others came clear across the state and handed over all of their money and bridal jewels. They knew what they were doing was illegal, and they didn’t care. Everyone knew the police of the old country looked the other way. Even if they didn’t, the women would have done it anyway. Anything to make sure their husbands got a son. That his family got an heir. The women said they were nothing if they couldn’t produce—reproduce—on command. I guess that hasn’t changed. The women of Koyanagar still want the same things. They’ve just made them harder to get.

  I hang the dirty kurta on the hook and take out the fresh one. When I pull it over my head, the seams under the arms tear. I look over my shoulder. The guard says, “We ran out of large ones. Most of the boys are skinnier than you.”

  Skinny means starved. Appa says that when he was young, being skinny meant you were beautiful and glamorous and there were people who actually died because they got too good at being th
in. Now skinny means poor and hungry, and no one wants to look like they’re either. Some of the families starve themselves so they can fatten up their sons before their tests. This is like the market vendors who display their fruit shiny side up. They’re hoping people will buy the fruit without turning it over, exactly like those parents are hoping the girls will pick their sons and marry them before they figure out that they don’t know how to eat with three forks and drink tea from china cups. I don’t understand the point of this deception. The girl will figure it out eventually. Why set the boys up to become even bigger disappointments than they already will be?

  Appa didn’t do anything to make me look different. We’re lucky that we can grow our own food. Enough to feed ourselves and trade for other things at the market. Plus, we work eighteen hours a day. I can’t help it if that has made me as strong and brown as an ox. A good thing for these physical tests, I suppose, but not a good one overall. That girl probably spends a fortune on powders so she can lighten her skin. Dark skin is equated with sunshine, and sunshine means outdoor work. She wouldn’t want to appear like she isn’t rich enough to avoid both.

  I lean forward to retie my shoes and hear the fabric tear clear across the back. The guard snickers. “Better put the old one back on, farm boy.”

  The boy in blue snorts from across the room. I shoot him a glare. His kurta fits as if it has been tailored for him. I bet we’re supposed to believe that’s a coincidence, just like we’re supposed to believe it’s a coincidence that he showed up for a secret football game with cleats and shin pads. The shin pads shouldn’t surprise me, I guess. Appa says the warrior who wears the armor is the one who’s out for blood, and there’s no question that boy wants blood. Also no question he got it. From me, literally. From the young boy as well and his blood won’t stop seeping here today. Unless he found a miracle cure for his broken leg, he’ll be off to the assignment center with the crippled boy. By sundown, they’ll both be at the wall and then…

  No. I must not think of that. I cannot help them. They are beyond my control now.

  I put the old kurta back on. It’s cooler now and feels strangely refreshing, even though I know it’s stained with grass, blood, and sweat. Whatever. I have no one to impress. This might even be better. The best thing for me would be if the girl believes I’m a useless market boy who doesn’t care about the appearance of himself or his wife. A boy who would be an embarrassment to her and her family and who would sire more embarrassing boys. Then she definitely won’t risk her future by giving me more rocks. She’ll pick the boy most suited to be the father of her beautiful daughters, and that won’t be a dirty savage like me.