Ríckshaw Gírl
For Rob, with love—M. P.
For Daisy and Nirmala and precious daughters everywhere—J. H.
2008 First paperback edition
Text copyright © 2007 by Mitali Perkins
Illustrations copyright © 2007 by Jamie Hogan
All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. Charlesbridge and colophon are registered trademarks of Charlesbridge Publishing, Inc.
Published by Charlesbridge
85 Main Street
Watertown, MA 02472
(617) 926-0329
www.charlesbridge.com
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Perkins, Mitali.
Rickshaw girl / Mitali Perkins; illustrated by Jamie Hogan.
p. cm.
Summary: In her Bangladesh village, ten-year-old Naima excels at painting designs called alpanas, but to help her impoverished family financially she would have to be a boy—or disguise herself as one.
978-1-60734-507-7
[1. Painting—Fiction. 2. Sex role—Fiction. 3. Rickshaws—Fiction. 4. Family life—Bangladesh—Fiction. 5. Bangladesh—Fiction.] I. Hogan, Jamie, ill. II. Title.
PZ7.P4315Ric 2007
[Fic]—dc22 2006009031
Illustrations done in pastels on Canson paper
Display type set in Marigold and text type set in Sabon
Color separations by Chroma Graphics, Singapore
Printed and bound by Lake Book Manufacturing, Inc.
Production supervision by Brian G. Walker
Designed by Susan Mallory Sherman
Ríckshaw Gírl
One
NAIMA RACED THROUGH her morning chores, trying hard to be careful. She washed the laundry in the river, making sure she didn’t break any buttons this time. The other girls lazily sloshed clothes around, giggling and gossiping, but today Naima didn’t stop to chat. She pumped four pails of water at the well, just as Mother had asked, and hauled them back one by one. She sliced eggplant, chili peppers, and onions in tiny, even cubes the way Mother liked them, instead of chopping them quickly into thick chunks the way she usually did.
“I’ve already wiped four banana leaf plates,” Naima announced.
“Without tearing them?” Mother asked, her eyebrows rising like crows’ wings.
“Not a rip in sight.”
Mother smiled. “Well done, Naima. You may wait outside for Father.”
Naima went quickly to the flat, wide stone just outside the doorway of their hut. Most of the homes in the village looked the same, with smooth clay walls, thatched roofs, dirt paths, and large stone thresholds. They only looked different on holidays, when girls decorated their family’s paths and thresholds with painted patterns called alpanas, just as their ancestors had done for generations. In Naima’s village, on International Mother Language Day, when the whole country celebrated the beauty of their Bangla language, the leaders gave a prize to the girl who painted the best alpanas.
Humming under her breath Naima carefully mixed up a batch of rice-powder paint. She’d invented a new pattern of curves, lines, and squares in her mind while doing her chores. Before she started painting she had to wipe off her last practice design. “Stop and think before you act,” Mother often reminded her. But she never needed to warn Naima to be thoughtful when it came to painting alpanas.
Naima’s sister Rashida came home from school. She started combing out her rag doll’s hair and watched Naima erase the stone. “You’re going to win again this year, Sister,” she said.
“I hope so,” Naima said. “We need another box of paints.”
“And a new pad of paper,” Rashida added.
Naima had made the prize last for months. She’d mixed colors from the paint box to create new ones. She and Rashida had discussed how to use each precious piece of fresh paper. Should Naima paint a crocodile slinking through lily pads? Or a monkey clutching a coconut as it swung from branch to branch? They picked the best paintings to brighten the dark clay walls inside their one-room hut.
The ring of a rickshaw bell made Naima look up. Saleem, their next-door neighbor, was pulling a passenger in his father’s rickshaw. Naima watched his skinny legs turn the pedals as he puffed up the hill. The cycle was attached to a brightly painted tin cart with a leather bench and a decorated canopy that shaded customers from the sun.
“Why don’t you and Saleem play together any more, Sister?” Rashida asked.
Naima dabbed her brush into the paint. She started a border of small circles that would go all the way around the big stone rectangle. “When you get older, Mother and the aunts will tell you not to talk to boys, too. They’ll say it’s not proper.”
“I like playing with everybody at school,” Rashida said. “Girls and boys.”
You’ll probably stop going soon anyway, Naima thought. Only Saleem knew how much she’d wanted to keep going to school. But Naima knew her parents couldn’t afford to pay fees for two girls. Naima had studied for three years. Now it was Rashida’s turn.
“You have to do more chores when you’re ten,” she said, sighing. “Saleem and I are both too busy to play these days.”
Naima didn’t tell her sister about the signal she and Saleem used when they wanted to meet. Saleem tucked a white handkerchief into his pocket. Naima tied a white bow on her braid. Once they’d finished their chores and eaten lunch in their own homes, they’d slip away to talk or play cards together behind the leafy banana trees. These days they only risked the signal for important meetings.
“You are getting old, Sister,” Rashida said. “You probably won’t be able to wear a salwar kameez much longer.” Both sisters were dressed in cotton pants under long-sleeved tunics that came to their knees.
Naima made a face. “I know,” she said. “And I can’t move fast in a saree. Yards and yards of cloth that you have to wrap around yourself! They look pretty, but I feel as if I’m wearing a big bandage.”
“Mother moves fast in her saree,” Rashida said.
Naima knew her sister was trying to comfort her. “I suppose I will, too, once I get used to wearing one every day.”
“I think it’s hard to grow up,” Rashida said, holding her rag doll close.
Naima didn’t answer, but sometimes she felt the same way.
TWO
FATHER WAS COMING DOWNHILL. The wheels of his rickshaw stirred up a flurry of dust. He raised a hand to greet the men who were playing cards in the shade of a mango tree. Their rickshaws all waited idly in the lane, and Father had to steer through a tangle of tin and tires. He parked in front of the hut.
Naima looked up from her alpanas to admire Father’s gleaming new rickshaw. The tassels dangling from the handlebars were still swaying. The side panels were adorned with painted peacock feathers, green and gold and purple, the same color as the tassels. The bright blue of the lake that was painted on the rear panel matched the blue leather seat. White lotus flowers floated on the lake.
It was Rashida’s turn to greet Father with a pail of river water. Father washed his face and hands, and gave her a kiss. “The marigolds need water, too, little one. They look as thirsty as I am.”
Rashida headed for the small patch of flowers behind the hut. She leaned away from the heavy pail to keep her balance.
Naima was glad she’d pumped plenty of fresh drinking water from the well. Father could drink as much as he wanted inside the hut. He’d been out since dawn, hauling people and packages from place to place. Right after lunch he would head out again until midnight. She wished he could rest inside the cool clay hut. He needed to stay out of the hot sun like everybody else. But they had borrowed a lot of money to buy the rickshaw. If they didn’t pay it back
soon, they might lose the rickshaw. And then how would Father earn money?
“Your alpanas get better every day, Daughter,” Father said, studying the design she was creating on the threshold.
“This one is not even halfway done yet,” Naima answered. “I’ve only just started.” “Really? It looks so good already!” “I’m going to paint a star in the middle,” Naima told him.
Father stepped over the threshold. He turned to take one last look at the rickshaw before going inside. “Will you clean it for me, Naima?” he asked. “Nobody gets it as bright as you do.”
“Of course, Father,” Naima said. The unfinished alpana on the stone called out to her, but she jumped up and found a wet rag.
Even though she rushed through her other chores, Naima took her time cleaning Father’s rickshaw. Rich people sometimes paid extra money to ride in a clean rickshaw. After scrubbing away most of the grime, she put the rag over one finger, held it in place with the other hand, and traced the outlines of the paintings. She polished the lotus flowers until they gleamed like ivory. The blue tin lake sparkled in the midday sunshine. Father’s rickshaw was so new that these decorations were the original ones. Each time Naima cleaned the rickshaw, she imagined scenes the rickshaw painter might invent once these panels faded. Maybe a waterfall cascading down the snowy Himalayan mountains. Or a tiger, eyes blazing, peering through a leafy jungle.
Mother’s worried voice drifted through the open door: “How much did you earn this morning, Husband?”
Naima tried not to listen, but she couldn’t help it. She was glad Rashida was stooping over the marigolds in the back, too far away to hear.
“Not enough,” Father replied.
Mother’s sigh sounded like air leaking from a tire. Naima counted to five. She braced herself for words she’d overheard before. “If only one of our girls had been a boy!” Mother said.
Father gave his usual quick answer. “I have two wonderful daughters. They’re just as good as boys.”
“But you look so tired! Saleem takes his father’s rickshaw out every afternoon so his father can rest. Our girls can’t do that for you.”
“Isn’t Naima the best alpana painter in the village?” Father asked. “Doesn’t she take care of her sister like a tiger guarding a cub? And Rashida is the best student in school!”
“Yes, but alpanas can’t put rice on the table. And what use is it if Rashida is smart? We can’t afford her school fees next year unless we pay off that rickshaw loan.”
Rashida was coming back. Naima dunked the rag in the half-empty pail of water her sister was carrying. Fiercely, she scrubbed out her alpana design until no traces of the rice powder remained on the threshold.
“What are you doing, Sister?” Rashida asked. “You weren’t finished! That was the best one yet!”
Naima didn’t answer. Mother was right. All that a girl could do was cook, clean, wash clothes, and decorate; she wasn’t allowed to do any work that brought in money. Painting alpanas wouldn’t help Father get rest. Or add to their earnings. It was a waste of time.
“Rash-ee-da! Na-ee-ma! Come inside! Your father is hungry.”
Saleem drove by again. This time a plump passenger sat on the bench of the rickshaw. He was a rich-looking passenger, juicy with money. Naima scowled and followed her sister into the hut.
Three
THE EGGPLANT CURRY and lentils were tasty, but Naima couldn’t eat. Father did look tired. What if he got sick again? Last time he had coughed and shivered so badly that he hadn’t been able to drive the rickshaw for weeks. They had used most of their savings to buy medicine.
If Father stayed healthy Naima was sure he would earn enough to provide food and pay back the rickshaw loan. But they could never afford the list of extras that she kept tucked inside her mind. A good supply of new paints and paper weren’t the only items on the list. Mother wore that same faded cotton saree every day—she needed a new one made of silk to wear on holidays. Father didn’t have a woolen shawl to keep him warm on cold nights. And Rashida glanced sadly into the sweet shop when the sisters passed it—she loved juicy roshogollah treats so much.
Naima spooned her lentils onto her sister’s banana leaf. If only I HAD been born a boy, she thought. Then I could earn some money. Even just a little would help!
“Lie down for a few minutes, Husband,” Mother urged. “You get so little rest. Even on Fridays you drive other men to the mosque before joining them to worship.”
Father hesitated. He yawned. “Promise to wake me after fifteen minutes?”
“Of course,” Mother said. She dimmed the window with an old sheet.
Slowly Father lowered himself onto the mat. He searched the darkened hut to find Naima. “Why don’t you finish your alpana design, my daughter? That way you can keep an eye on the rickshaw, too.”
“Yes, Father,” Naima said, as she watched him slip almost instantly into sleep.
“Shh, girls,” Mother said, tiptoeing around Father’s quiet body. “Rashida, wipe off the plates. Didn’t you hear your father, Naima? Go out and take care of that rickshaw!”
Naima went outside into the stifling noontime heat. The card-playing men had gone inside. Somewhere a radio was blaring Bangladesh’s national anthem. Naima didn’t feel like painting alpanas. Instead, still frowning, she climbed onto the leather bench of Father’s rickshaw where the canopy provided some shade.
Saleem drove by again, this time with no passenger behind him. He glanced quickly around. Nobody was in sight, so he jumped off the cycle seat and walked over to Naima. “What’s wrong?” he asked her.
Naima climbed down to join him. “You help your father,” she burst out. “Why can’t I help mine?”
Saleem shrugged. “You’re a girl. Girls stay home and help their mothers. Boys earn money and work with their fathers. That’s just the way it is.”
“But why? It’s not like that everywhere, Saleem. When I passed the tea stall this morning and peeked in at the television, I saw a Bangladeshi lady on the screen who was a doctor. And the last time he went to the city, Father told us he visited a shoe stand that was owned by a woman. If those women can do it, why can’t I?”
“What are you going to do? Open a shoe stand here?”
Naima sighed. “That’s the problem. I’d need money to do something like that. Besides, have you ever seen a girl—or even a woman—selling anything in our marketplace?”
“You’re right,” Saleem said. “I haven’t.”
They were quiet. Then: “Too bad I can’t turn myself into a boy,” Naima said.
“Yes! That would be great! We could play like
we used to—out in the open. You could join in our cricket games, and—Naima? Naima! Are you listening?”
Four
THE WHEELS IN NAIMA’S MIND were spinning wildly. She stared at Saleem’s clothes. He wore a short lungi, a kurta shirt, and a cap. A cap that was just big enough to hide a girl’s coiled braid.
“She’s getting another one of her ideas,” Saleem told his reflection in the rickshaw’s tin panel. “Naima. Na-ee-ma! What are you thinking?”
“What if I disguised myself as a boy?” Naima asked. “I could drive Father’s rickshaw for an hour or two every day. He’d have a chance to rest, and I could earn some money.”
Saleem shook his head. “People will still recognize you.”
“It might work at twilight,” Naima said. “You can’t see faces clearly at that time of day.”
“Naima, it won’t work, I tell you. Your passengers will know you’re a girl as soon as they hear your voice.”
“I wouldn’t have to say much. Besides, I can sound like a boy. Listen to this.” Naima deepened her voice: “Three taka for a ride to the marketplace and back.”
Saleem grinned. “You sound more like a boy than I do,” he said. “But this might be a good time to remember some history, Naima. Like the time you wanted us to walk all the way to the Dhaka zoo, for example. Even though it takes four hours to get there
by train.”
“We were only six years old. Father found us before it got dark.”
“What about the time you almost drowned trying to catch fish with that new kind of net you invented?”
“I really thought those knots wouldn’t break,” Naima said, shrugging, “but they did. Anyway you pulled me to shore in plenty of time. But this is different, Saleem. I’m older now. I’ll ask Mother and Father for permission first.”
“Even if they let you try wearing a disguise, which I’m sure they won’t, somebody in the village will find out. They’ll start gossiping. You’ll bring shame to your whole family, Naima, and you don’t want to do that.”
“I don’t care!” Naima said fiercely. “It’s more shameful that I can’t help by earning a little money. Besides, Mother and Father can keep a secret. Even Rashida knows how to hold her tongue. I’d promise to stay away from the relatives’ huts.”
Somebody switched off the radio, and Saleem climbed back on his cycle seat. “There has to be another way for you to earn some money,” he told her. “We’ll think of something, Naima.”
“There isn’t another way,” Naima said, folding her arms and jutting out her chin.
Saleem sighed, shook his head, and drove away.
Naima stuck out her tongue at his back. Easy for you to say, she thought. You’re a boy. She turned back to the rickshaw, and in her imagination she moved forward with her plan. First she’d convince her parents: “Father, you need rest. You can’t get sick again. Mother, it’s only an hour a day. Nobody will recognize me.”
“What a wonderful idea, Naima,” Mother would say. “You’re so thoughtful.”
“See? I told you a daughter’s just as good as a son,” Father would add. “I knew she could do it.”
But could she? She squinted at Father’s rickshaw, sparkling in the sunshine after her cleaning. It was beautiful, but it looked so heavy! She’d never driven one before. She was about the same size as Saleem though, and he managed to turn the pedals. She’d just have to show Father how good she was. Then he’d be sure to let her try it.
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