5 to 1

by Holly Bodger

  Her baaba’s standing in the open door.

  “I’m looking for Asha,” I say,

  glancing around.

  Trying not to panic

  at the boxes rising from every corner

  like blocks ready to topple.

  My head tells me

  this is only for show.

  Act I: Make room for Asha’s husband.

  But my heart knows

  this is all too real.

  There are too many boxes.

  Not enough life.

  “She’s not here,” her baaba says.

  His face droops like a wrinkled apple

  and I can tell by the red in his eyes

  that he doesn’t mean

  for now.

  “Shouldn’t you be at the club?” he asks.

  I point to my shoulder,

  too dazed to be sure

  I’ve picked the one with the stain.

  “I had to change,” I say.

  “I guess I’ll see her at my ceremony.”

  I turn back toward the lift,

  not waiting to see if he’ll

  confirm.

  Knowing it might be a lie

  even if he did.

  In my room, I pull out the sari

  I wore to Surina’s wedding.

  I run my fingers over one of the

  embroidered suns

  that were added for good luck.

  They were a little too late

  for Surina.

  Hopefully, not

  too late

  for me.

  I lay the sari on my bed.

  See an envelope

  poking out from under my bear

  like a child up past bedtime.

  I pull it out and my heart

  STOPS

  when I see Susa

  in Asha’s loopy handwriting.

  She has no reason to

  write me a letter.

  Not if she’s coming to my ceremony.

  And she must come

  to my ceremony.

  She.

  Must.

  I unfold the page,

  and my eyes race to the end

  as if their speed

  can catch her words

  before they come true.

  Susa,

  I hope you understand

  why I couldn’t stay.

  The place where I’m going

  will always have a hole

  up high where you should be.

  I hope you find

  what you’re looking for.

  Love, A.

  I read it two more times.

  Don’t want to accept

  that she’s gone.

  She can’t be.

  Not before I tell her what Five said

  about the sea.

  about the wall.

  about the revenge.

  I fold my sari around my waist.

  Continue as planned. Ignore

  the

  fist in my stomach.

  the

  tempest in my head.

  This is it.

  Act II: Pretend everything’s fine.

  I go to Nani’s room.

  Take the key.

  Open the safe.

  The jewels’ plush red box

  is near the back—

  its companions,

  rolls of the

  old country’s money.

  I figure these are keepsakes,

  like the antique mobile phone

  that’s tucked in there also.

  But when I pull out a roll,

  I see

  the old wrinkled face

  of the great Gandhi-ji

  and

  a date, not old at all.

  No.

  It can’t be.

  Koyanagar created the yira

  when it formed.

  How would Nani get

  banknotes from last year?

  Why

  would Nani get

  banknotes from last year?

  Unless—

  Could this be how she buys her way

  around the system?

  Could this mean

  that Five got it wrong?

  that it is possible to cross the wall

  if you have the

  right

  kind of money?

  That maybe,

  if I had that kind of money,

  I could find Asha?

  Help her get across?

  Go with her?

  That maybe

  I could help Five, too.

  Help him find what who he lost.

  Help him win something from this game.

  I take the roll and box.

  Search for the Koyanagar Registry—

  the hard black book

  that should be tucked behind it all.

  I’ve seen Nani take it from here.

  Often moments after a courier arrives

  with news:

  Sometimes happy.

  Oftentimes not.

  I rummage around,

  but the book is gone

  and so is the sand

  in my hourglass.

  I rush to the kitchen

  for a knife.

  I stuff it in my bag

  with Papa’s old clothes.

  Wish I had some courage

  to pack instead.

  Could this be it?

  Act III: Trudge ahead?

  Without

  sight?

  Without

  plans?

  Without

  a hope in hell?

  When the carriage returns me

  to the stone building,

  I find Nani pacing,

  her face ready to burst

  like an overcooked tomato.

  “You awarded that—

  that oaf again. You said—”

  She exhales hard,

  glaring at the jewels

  on my ears and neck.

  “Those jewels are

  mine.

  They belong in

  my

  family. Maybe you need to remember

  that you also

  belong there.”

  “Don’t worry,” I tell her

  with a confidence I don’t feel.

  “Everyone will end up

  exactly where they belong

  in the end.”

  That’s Act IV:

  Decide where that will be

  for me.

  28

  I sit in the waiting room, my elbows resting on my knees. The boy in blue demanded that the guard take him to see the director of the test. He’s probably trying to convince her I cheated somehow. I didn’t, but I still shouldn’t have given the girl a cherry from my bag. I should have stuck to the plan and told her I didn’t know how to cook, even though Appa has taught me how to season lentils and chop ginger until it’s as fine as dust.

  But tears. Tears. I couldn’t ignore her tears and the way she looked so desperate to get away from him. He must have done something awful. Something worse than when he touched her. Something that proves he will never change and doesn’t deserve her or any girl. But now it’s down to him and me and she has to choose one of us and if it’s not me it’s—

  No. I can’t let her do that. I wouldn’t be able to live with myself knowing I forced her into his clutches. But what else can I do? I have to stick to the plan. Appa said the only way for me to escape unnoticed is if I do it while everyone is distracted during the Choosing Ceremony. There will be a few minutes between when I’m sent off the stage and when the guards have to collect all the other losers for transfer to the assignment center. If I don’t get away then, I’ll be sent to the wall and it will be almost impossible to escape. Yes, I must stick to the plan. Appa said the boat would be waiting in the barn and I need to be out to sea before there’s enough light for the shoreline patrol guards to spot me. Then I will be gone from Koyanagar for good and I will never look bac
k, just like I promised Appa. He will tell everyone I threatened to jump off Agnimar Cliff if I lost and they will all assume this is what happened. I will get work in the old country and then I will search for Amma. The girl—Sudasa—will marry the boy and she will be rich and comfortable like the rest of the girls in Koyanagar. But when I leave, I won’t think about that. I will forget her and her sad eyes and her awful future.

  Won’t I?

  But what if it is like with Amma? What if I spend my whole life wondering what happened to her? And what if she spends her whole life feeling like me? Feeling like the lone shoe left behind the cart? I have to tell her she is better than that.

  I press my forehead into my hands.

  No. She is not my responsibility. I must forget her. I must focus on my new life outside Koyanagar. My life that will start with Amma telling me it was all a misunderstanding. She didn’t want to leave Koyanagar but she got caught up in the crowds that were pushing through the gate. Or she meant to leave but was planning to come back before the gates were closed but then there was a delay and she couldn’t get back in. Or she thought Appa would change his mind and we’d come with her when the gates opened again. She didn’t know they’d still be closed twelve years later. One of these must be true. And as soon as I find out which one it is, I will have my wheel back and will be able to move my wheelbarrow forward into my future.

  There’s a light rap on the door. I look up as a man enters. It’s not the guard. This man is wearing a long gray kurta with white chikan decorating the collar. The cotton is crisp and freshly pressed. A sign that his home has servants. Or that he’s one of them? But why would he be here? And why does he seem so familiar?

  He sits on the bench next to me, placing a black satchel on the floor next to his pointy jutis. “You are from Mannipudi,” he tells me as if he knows this is a fact.

  I nod anyway.

  “I suppose they don’t call it that now that it has been swallowed by Koyanagar. Is it still very different from the big city? Does it still have that man Anand? The old boat maker who sells his carved elephants at Hun Market?”

  I nod again. Is that where I know him from? He’s a buyer at the market? Should I be worried that he mentioned Anand? Appa refused to tell me who helped him with his plan, including who made the boat I’m using to escape. He said it was better if I knew only what I had to do. That way, if I was caught and questioned by the army, they couldn’t beat me into betraying those people who had risked their necks to help Appa.

  “You have your appa’s eyes. I think, perhaps, his spirit, also.” The man adds a grin and then motions to the bridge of my nose—the part that’s still a bit red and swollen from yesterday. “The boy with the glass nose. I suppose your appa was right about that!”

  I scrunch my forehead. “You know my appa from the market?”

  The man stares ahead as if his mind has left for a journey yet his body has stayed behind. “Yes, yes,” he says, returning his focus to me. “We have much in common these days. But I also knew your appa when I was younger. Or, at least, he knew me. He used to watch me play cricket. The people from Mannipudi—like that man Anand—they say he was my greatest fan. Some say I owe at least part of my fame and fortune to your appa.”

  My eyes become full moons. “You are the Mighty Bala? But why—” I clip the rest of my sentence. I want to ask him why Appa didn’t point him out at the market and if he still plays cricket, but I have no right to question a man like him. And if he’s here, I already know most of the answers. There is no cricket in Koyanagar. No more glory for sport—for men.

  The Mighty Bala stands. “He’s a wise man, your appa. He does not alter when alteration he finds, nor bend with the remover to remove.… Ah, there I go again. Letting my words carry me away.” He shakes his head and adds, “Even at the darkest hour, your appa knows the right path to follow. You must trust this.”

  I say, “Yes, Uncle,” as I kneel down to touch his feet, bowing my head and closing my eyes. It may no longer be custom in Koyanagar, but this man has Appa’s deepest respect and he deserves mine, as well.

  My eyes are still closed when I remember where I saw him before. He was seated at the yellow table when I received the instructions for my last test. The table with the ice water and the sad girl named Sudasa. Could he be her father? Could the man Appa can’t forget have created the girl I must? But why would he come in here and tell me that I must follow Appa’s plan no matter what? Could he actually want his daughter to marry a monster?

  I’m about to stand so I can ask him this when I notice his satchel on the floor. I look up, my lips already parted to remind him not to forget it. But I don’t get to speak before I realize he’s gone.

  I jump to my feet. I’m not supposed to leave the room, but I’m sure I can catch him in the hallway if I lean out the door. I grab the handle of the satchel, and a hard black book falls out, splaying on the floor like a dropped melon. I pick it up. It’s a list of names arranged by year. A directory? Or…could this be it—the famous Koyanagar Registry? But why would the Mighty Bala have it? And why would he leave it here with me, the poor boy who is trying not to win his daughter’s hand in marriage?

  I flip through the yellowed pages until I find the section for 2036. I scan through the months of birth…

  August…

  September…

  October…there it is!

  I locate my name. Next to it, in the same black ink, is my citizenship number and date of birth—2 October. There’s a blank space where my date of death will go one day, perhaps soon. Who knows what they will put when I disappear. Probably the date I supposedly jumped off the cliff (in red, of course). There’s a circled blue T in the margin by my name. I scan the other pages in 2036 and see this same symbol next to many other boys’ names. This must be how they know we’ve been selected for the tests.

  I scan back a couple more years. The blue T’s are random and not nearly as common as the red dates of death. Could this be what the Mighty Bala wanted me to see? The reality of what will happen to me if I don’t follow the plan?

  The pounding of my heart grows to a dull thud and I’m washed with the feeling that the Mighty Bala might have wanted me to see something else. Something worse.

  I continue to flip back until I get to 2004 and then I scan the months until I find Appa’s name: Pillai, R. Maani. I let out a deep breath when I see that his date of death is still blank. I know I saw him only a few days ago. Still, I can’t help but worry. He’s not well and he will die one day. It may be when I’m working at my new job or when I’m eating or asleep. I won’t know when it happens. I won’t know if it’s in a week or in a year or in ten years.

  The pounding in my chest morphs into a sharp pain. There’s another name I must see before I return the satchel to the Mighty Bala. I flip forward to 2013, locate April, and then scan down the days.

  1 April.

  3 April.

  7 April.

  The pain in my chest disappears. It’s replaced with something hard and dry, like a lump of clay that has been left out in the air. There’s a Veera Pillai with Amma’s birth date, 11 April. But in the column next to it, there’s no blank. There’s a second date: 31 December 2041. It’s the day before they closed the Koyanagar gates. And it’s in red.

  I want to laugh because it means that Amma didn’t choose to leave me like one of those babies in the parks.

  But I also want to cry because it means Amma is dead.

  29

  The final

  Test is entirely my choice.

  No more time to prepare.

  Not even for me.

  When Asha and I used to play

  Tests with our dolls,

  she always chose something

  hard

  for her final Test.

  Something like

  What’s the square root of 5,950,432?

  No matter what the question,

  her boy doll would always lose,

  whereas mine— />
  I gave mine

  silly

  challenges. Like hopping on one foot

  for an hour. Or saying a tongue twister

  forty times:

  Sudasa Bala sings songs with her sister by the sea.

  Sudasa Bala sings songs with her sister by the sea.…

  As I stare at my two boys—

  one with eleven rocks,

  the other with thirteen—

  I know what I choose,

  silly or not,

  doesn’t matter.

  I must act like Nani.

  Ignore the rules.

  Ignore what’s fair.

  I must keep my promise to Five.

  Must make sure my cousin

  is the victor.

  Of course, this doesn’t mean

  I must hand him the win

  on a brass tray,

  so when the director asks me,

  “What is your final Test?”

  I pause.

  Say, “Poetry.”

  That

  will show him how it really feels

  to sweat.

  Nani repeats my word

  as if she hasn’t heard it

  before.

  I say it again, glancing at Papa.

  “I want poems.

  You know how I love poetry.

  I used to read it with my cousin

  all the time.”

  Papa drops his gaze to his book,

  and I know his smile is not

  for the shahi korma recipe

  on his page.

  Although Nani opens her mouth,

  she closes it before she admits

  she’s the one

  with the pungi.

  My cousin seems to forget

  his place in the basket.

  “That’s not a Test,” he says,

  more to the director

  than to me.

  When she turns to me, I smile.

  “I imagine that will make it

  very easy then,

  won’t it?”

  With a raised eyebrow,

  the director gives my boys

  paper and pencils.

  She sends them off.

  Off to tell me why they want me.

  Or, in one case,

  why they don’t.

  While I wait patiently at the table,

  I keep my foot on top of the bag