She Will Build Him a City

by Raj Kamal Jha

  I have never been out so late since I came to this city.

  ~

  Lying in bed, the fears return. What did your father tell Sister Agnes? What has he promised her about me that I am neither aware of nor capable of? What will happen tomorrow morning? How will I stand in front of forty children, boys and girls, what if they keep shouting and I cannot do anything, what if I start crying?

  Go to sleep now, says your father, you need to get up early, I will drop you off at the school before I go to college. As if he has heard the voices in my head, he says, even I had no idea what to teach, how to teach when I walked into college the first day. You learn, just like your students. All you need to know and all you need to keep telling yourself is that you have seen and done more than the boys and girls in the class, you have more stories to tell them than they have to tell you.

  The next morning, I begin as a kindergarten teacher.

  ~

  That’s what your father does to me and that’s what he would have done tonight, he would have said, baby, write down your problems, all the questions that you have in your head. Make three boxes, one that says ‘Can be solved today’, one that says ‘Will need some time and help’, and the last one that says ‘Will never be solved’. Let’s see which problem goes into which box.

  That’s your father. I wish he were here today.

  Who knows, he may drop by. Because, some nights, he does, like that woman, 12 feet tall, he slips into this house.

  MAN

  New City

  Balloon Girl and her mother have been quite neat. This must be their first time in a bathtub but they have followed his instructions to the last one because hardly any water has spilled out, there are only two damp patches on the floormat where they dry themselves, their towels in two crumpled balls on the floor. There are some smudges in the tub, along its sides and its lip, footprints and handprints, large and small, but these aren’t much of a problem, he turns the shower on for the water to wash these stains away. Maybe he will get it scrubbed clean later, scoured and disinfected. He may need something strong to get rid of the clump of hair that sits in the drain. They live on the street near the hospital, you never know what germs they might carry.

  ~

  He takes out a fresh pair of latex gloves from a box Arsh got him as a gift the last time he was here.

  ‘This is the only thing you will like from Paris,’ Arsh says. ‘Maybe you can get these here too but I have got you top quality. Twelve boxes, each with fifty gloves, that’s six hundred, will last you a long time.’

  He thinks so, too, but he’s down to three boxes – and it’s been just over a year since Arsh left.

  He slips on a pair, sprays Dettol on his hands, ties a fresh, ironed handkerchief around his mouth and nose. A dank warmth radiates from the pile of their soiled clothes as if someone alive, made of flesh and blood, is sleeping under them. The mother’s yellow sari, orange blouse, two of its four hooks missing. A shred of a towel. Balloon Girl’s dress is a grey frock, the colour of street; a sleeve torn, frayed around the neck. Her underwear is a pair of boy shorts with a string.

  Five pieces, all cotton.

  Washer and dryer are in the bathroom, installed as one unit, front-loading, next to the bathtub. Someone may hear at night, he worries, he will muffle the sound by closing the bathroom door. He drops the clothes in, pours liquid detergent, double of what’s needed, adds fabric softener, switches the machine on.

  Should take an hour, at the most.

  He will drape them over the air conditioner for faster drying.

  ~

  It will be nice if Balloon Girl wakes up, he thinks, because he can then show her the washing machine. He will tell her to sit down on the floor and, through the machine’s circular glass window, watch the clothes spin and tumble. Slow first, then so fast that it looks like a fan, making the clothes disappear into a blur. He will show her how streaks of water slide down glass, like tears; the red light glowing in the display panel in the dark. He will tell her to place her hand on the machine, feel its movement. He has so much to show her. From his wrap­around balcony, more than a thousand square feet, he will point out to her the road they took when they came from the hospital, that heads to Jaipur and then farther south and west to Mumbai where the sea is. He will show her the office building, across the street, that’s shaped like a ship, its top like a mast, its terrace converging on a point in the night sky just under the stars. They are under the flight corridor and he will show her planes, big ones landing or taking off, small ones very high up, moving between the moon and the stars, bound east or west for cities he hasn’t seen.

  He will show her his city.

  New City, that’s still not ready, that’s being built as they watch, freshly laid tar on its streets gleaming, all its buildings scrubbed and polished, from their iron gates to their red-and-yellow barricades with red lights blinking, as if all the parts of the city have been bought in a box, from a shop that sells cities, and is now being unpacked, the different pieces laid out across what was once a thousand villages. He will show her the Town & Country Resort, the new club they have just built, he will take her to the edge of its shimmering swimming pool, ask her to look down and see, below the water on the floor, a magnificent cockroach unlike any creature she has seen before.

  He loves New City. Especially at this time in the night, especially from this height, because then he cannot see a single imperfection. It spreads below him, dark and flowing, like the sky itself, dotted with stars on the ground, lights, the diffused glare of the traffic below, points of light that move, and, in between, a wisp of smoke rising, from an oven in the slums across the Metro tracks.

  There is so much to show, should he wake her up?

  It’s still night, he walks to the bedroom to check.

  ~

  Mother and Balloon Girl sleep, each one has drawn the bathrobe tight around herself like a quilt. The mother’s right arm is draped around the girl, holding her close.

  He will let them sleep.

  The room is cold, he raises the temperature 5 degrees. Five beeps but no one wakes up. Which suits him fine since their clothes, he can hear, have only now started their spin cycle.

  He will wait. So he sits on the floor, next to their bed, watches their two chests rise and fall, listens to two hearts beating.

  CHILD

  Camera India

  The very day Orphan receives his Certificate of Abandonment under the Juvenile Justice (Care & Protection of Children) Act, 2000, and is, therefore, legally free for adoption, Priscilla Thomas, forty-two, the country’s most famous TV anchor, single, announces her wish to start a family in a dramatic moment at the end of her weekly show, Camera India, when she looks into an estimated 10 million or so pairs of eyes, and she says words to this effect:

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen, 65 per cent of the children adopted in this city this year were girls because, one, there are more girls out there abandoned, helpless baby girls crying in the dark. If they haven’t already been killed in the uterus, that is. Two, everyone wants to be politically correct. That, quote, we don’t kill baby girls, we bring them home and take care of them, unquote. And, three, we all know, and I know my feminist guests on the panel will disagree with me, that daughters are more kind, more loyal, more sacrificing than sons. So getting a girl home means you get an adopted daughter who will always be grateful to you.

  ‘Well, enough is enough, I say. You have seen me, you know me, I never ever blurred the line between my personal and my professional, ladies and gentlemen, you know that, but not tonight. Tonight I want to tell the nation that I am going to go out and get myself a baby.

  ‘A boy, yes, a boy.

  ‘Because, in all our big talk of being an emerging power, we, as a people, as a nation, blind ourselves. We refuse to see facts and the fact is: when a helpless, homeless baby lies abandoned, whether it should have a home should not depend on, pardon my language here, what’s there or not there between those l
egs.’

  There’s no controlling the studio audience.

  Some jump off chairs, one falls off, another closes his eyes in prompt prayer, others run up to Ms Thomas and ask for her autograph. On their arms, their necks, one man lifts his T-shirt, points to his heart, says, please sign here, Priscilla, please. Special guest for the evening Miss Universe 1992 Sushmita Sen, with her adopted daughters, walks up to Ms Thomas and hugs her so hard her microphone falls down, its wires get tangled, its electronic whine pierces the studio and living rooms across the country but no one cares as Ms Thomas, one arm around Ms Sen, the other wiping a tear from her eye, shouts out her signature line: ‘Thank you, India, thank you, we will be right back.’

  ~

  Mr Sharma watches this and knows instantly that this is the right time and the right place to do the right thing for Orphan, for Little House and for himself.

  Three birds and he can hit them with one stone that has fallen from the heavens above.

  Orphan could be the TV baby and have, as his mother, Ms Thomas, the most famous woman – now mother – in India. Mr Sharma himself will become a star. His only appearance on TV so far has been a twenty-second clip on child welfare on a news channel whose owner, a realtor, is in prison for raping his marketing assistant. This could make him a national figure, Mr Sharma tells himself, and, who knows, thanks to YouTube, he will even go bacterial, viral, whatever is the word they use these days.

  So that night, after his wife and his son have gone to sleep, Mr Sharma sits down to write an email to Ms Thomas – why wait for tomorrow, if you want to do something, do it right now, at this very instant, that’s always been his motto – and to ensure that it catches her eye from among the countless that must choke her inbox, he tries to be evocative in the subject line:

  mama thomas, from your son, soon to be

  ~

  Dear, Respected Ms Thomas, writes Mr Sharma.

  Tears fill my eyes as I watch your show tonight but once I wipe them, I can see clearly. I see a little boy just down the hall from where I sit and I know you are his mother.

  Here he is, speaking to you in his own voice:

  My name is Orphan. It’s an unreal name. I have been waiting in Little House for a real home, for a real mother to give me a real name. I will be the least trouble, everyone here will tell you how quiet I am, how disciplined in my habits. In your house, it will be as if I am not even there.

  You say, displaying rare courage, that you wish for a son.

  That’s why I sleep tonight, a happier and a more hopeful baby boy, because I have seen my mother.

  I wait for your reply.

  It’s 2 a.m. when Mr Sharma hits Send.

  At 2.03 a.m., comes Ms Thomas’s reply:

  Mr Sharma, see you in your office at Little House, 10 a.m. today.

  Mr Sharma wants to wake up his wife, his child, switch on all the lights in the house, read aloud his email.

  He calls Mrs Chopra.

  ~

  ‘Did I wake you up?’

  ‘No problem, sir, not at all.’

  ‘I usually don’t call so late in the night but this is very important,’ says Mr Sharma.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Priscilla Thomas…’

  ‘Yes, sir, Ms Thomas, the TV woman.’

  ‘Did you watch her show?’

  ‘No, sir, I was in the kitchen, my son returned late in the night.’

  ‘Ms Thomas is coming to Little House tomorrow at 10 a.m. to look at Orphan for adoption. This could be our moment, Mrs Chopra, the day we have been waiting for. At last, the world will get to know the wonderful work I, you, we, all of us, do at Little House. And Orphan gets a super home.’

  ‘Very good, sir, that’s too good.’

  ‘You were the one who picked up Orphan first, I want you to be there in case she wants to interview you.’

  ‘Sir, of course, I will be there an hour early.’

  ‘And on your way, please get pastries, samosas, cold drinks, Coke, that we can offer her and her crew.’

  ‘Shouldn’t we prepare him, sir?’

  ‘Prepare? Who?’

  ‘Orphan?’

  ‘Prepare him means, Mrs Chopra?’

  ‘His mother may be coming tomorrow, that he will be leaving us shortly. The child needs to be prepared for what is going to happen to him.’

  ‘Don’t jump the gun, Mrs Chopra, no need to think of the chicken before the egg. Let’s see how this goes, the only preparation I want is that Orphan should be bathed, dressed well, he should smell good, put some nice talcum powder behind his ears. Ms Thomas may want to hold him and you know how important first impressions are, especially if her camera is running. Orphan smells, or wets himself, she will say, let me go to Mumbai to get a boy. Or even Kolkata, to the Missionaries of Charity.’

  ‘Sir, what about Kalyani? She is his nurse. She is always with him, shouldn’t we tell her?’

  ‘What about her? We call her a nurse but she is little more than a maid, why do we need to tell her? She doesn’t need to know. Let’s keep this between us. Strictly professional.’

  ‘Of course, sir, thank you.’

  ‘Goodnight.’

  ~

  Back in Little House, it is quiet. All the babies sleep.

  Sitting on the floor, her back against the wall next to Orphan’s cot, Kalyani has nodded off. She is tired, her chest hurts, she feels the first flush of a fever. Her nursing exam guide slips to the floor and makes a noise which no one hears. During the night, on his rounds, Dr Chatterjee comes in to check, finds her curled up, like a child. He gets a sheet and covers her with it, up to her neck.

  Kalyani doesn’t move even the slightest, so deep has she fallen asleep.

  WOMAN

  Your Birth

  I remember, like every mother does, the first touch of your skin against mine, damp and soft, when they wheel you into my room in the nursing home after they measure you, weigh you, clean you up. I have some stitches which hurt as I hold you in the crook of my arm, sized and shaped to make you a perfect fit. When you cry, they take you away to feed you because I am not ready with milk.

  Through the night, I slip in and out of sleep.

  ~

  I remember the day before and the day after your birth, my three days of doing nothing; of having, at my service, three nurses, two attendants, two doctors, from wake-up to sleep time. My legs massaged, my back kneaded; my heels, cracked in several places, dipped in warm water from where steam rises, fragrant, then dabbed dry, gently, with a warm towel and then, in the end, softened with cold cream. My first manicure, my first pedicure, I learn these words in the hospital, someone else cutting, filing my nails to a perfect shape – all edges rounded, dead skin removed.

  An attendant escorts me to the bathroom, holds my hand, like I am a little girl. I tell her, you don’t have to, she says, no, we have to be very careful, there is someone inside you now.

  The bathroom floor is dry, I stand under the shower. The nurse tells me to undress, I am awkward, she says, no one’s looking, don’t worry, I am going to close the door.

  I watch water run down my body, there’s a mirror in the bathroom in which I see myself, through the shower’s frosted door, my shape and, inside it, yours.

  The bath soap is liquid gel, so soft in my hands it slips between my fingers, drips to the floor, mixes with the water there, foaming a puddle around my feet. The towel Jincy, the nurse, gives me is so large it wraps me in its folds, one, two, three, half a four, almost like a sari, white in colour.

  Take two towels, Didi, she says, one for the shower, one for the hair. And drop them in the bathroom, leave them there, we will clean up.

  They give me a blue gown, buttons in the back.

  You don’t have to wear anything underneath the gown, she says, matter-of-fact.

  That night, I latch the door, step out of my gown, walk around in my room, I have never done this and so I do it again and again. I stand at the window and look down at the str
eet. At people walking by, trams, buses. I wait for a crowd to gather, to point to me and say, look up, look, there’s a naked pregnant woman at the window, is she crazy?

  ~

  It’s like I am on vacation.

  There’s no waking up in the morning looking at the clock, no dragging myself to the balcony to light the oven, clear last night’s ash, no choosing the right-sized pieces of coal so that they catch fire quickly, no putting wood or paper to help the fire spread, no closing eyes to keep the smoke out. No ironing clothes, no cooking in the kitchen, no sitting on my haunches, no sweat trickling down my back. The nursing home has a generator so there’s no preparing for the power-cut every evening, cleaning lanterns with ash, no making new wicks from old clothes, no pouring kerosene oil. So I don’t wake up once I fall sleep. Except, of course, when they bring you to me twice or thrice in the night when you cry. Even then, I just hold you close and my big sleep drags your small one into its folds.

  Breakfast is cornflakes and milk in a white ceramic bowl cool to the touch. They check on me every four hours, lunch you won’t believe: three kinds of vegetables, two pieces of fish, chicken too, bread so soft, so white, so warm I don’t want to eat it, I want to show it to your father. Rice is poured onto the plate compacted, shaped like a bowl, steaming fresh with fragrance of herbs I have never smelt before. Glass of milk, chilled in the fridge; orange juice, and, on top of all this, ice cream. Strawberry one day, vanilla the other, they ask, would you like a cup or a stick, choose, we can give you both if you wish. And towels, big and small, rolled up, warm and cold, whatever feels good at that time, for the forehead, for my face.