Five
NAIMA GLANCED AROUND. The village was silent; the lane empty. Quickly she climbed up on the cycle seat. She had to stand to reach both pedals at the same time. Grasping the handles for balance, she pressed hard with her feet.
The rickshaw didn’t budge.
Naima pushed against the pedals with all her might.
The rickshaw started rolling downhill.
She was doing it! She was driving the rickshaw!
As she turned the pedals, Naima pictured Father’s smile as she handed him the taka she had earned. In her mind’s eye Mother got teary as she unwrapped a silk saree that Naima had picked out. An imaginary Rashida giggled as she popped one roshogollah after another into her mouth, devouring the whole pot that Naima had brought home from the sweet shop.
Before she realized what was happening, the lane began to curve at the bottom of the slope. A thicket of bushes loomed ahead. They were coming closer and closer. Desperately Naima tried to turn the rickshaw, but she couldn’t seem to change directions. She squeezed the hand brakes as hard as she could, but the rickshaw seemed to pick up speed instead of slowing down. She couldn’t steer it. She couldn’t stop it.
Just before the rickshaw careened into the bushes, Naima managed to jump off the cycle. She landed on her hands and knees in the dusty lane. CRASH! The rickshaw just kept hurtling through the thicket like a stampeding animal.
Naima stayed where she was and listened to the rasp of thorns clawing the tin. Her heart was beating like a tabla drum. When everything was still, she stood up and made herself look. The thorns had captured Father’s gleaming new rickshaw, bushes closing around it like a trap. Naima groaned and turned away.
Rashida was standing at the curve of the lane, her mouth as round as an alpana circle. Naima gestured at her sister, combing the air with her palm down, and Rashida raced down the hill. The two sisters struggled to pull out the rickshaw, but it was too heavy for them.
“Get Father,” Naima said finally.
She sat on a rock and waited, her head in her hands. What had she done? Why hadn’t she stopped to think? Mother was right—Naima was too thoughtless. Saleem had been right, too—this had been another one of her silly ideas.
Father and Mother and Rashida came running. Mother gathered Naima close. Then she held her out at arm’s length, scanning her face, hands, body. “Are you bleeding?” she asked.
“I’m all right, Mother, but—” Naima’s voice broke.
Father was already in the bushes. Somehow he managed to wrestle the rickshaw back onto the lane. All four of them gasped when they saw the scratches on the leather and the dents on the tin. The peacock feathers on the side panels were torn and ragged. Even the painted lotus flowers on the back panel had been clawed by the thorns.
“Eesh!” Mother wailed. “You’ve ruined the rickshaw, Naima! What were you thinking?”
“I—I was trying to drive it.”
“What? Why in the world would you do something like that?”
“I’m sorry,” Naima managed to say, fighting back tears. “I was trying to see if I could drive it so—so that I could give Father a rest.” It was too late to explain her whole idea. She knew they’d never let her try it now.
“The sun has been shining too hot on your head, Daughter!” Mother scolded. “Have you ever seen a girl driving a rickshaw? I thought you were growing up, Naima, but you’re as careless as ever!”
Father didn’t say anything. His face was grim. He climbed on and pushed the pedals. The rickshaw moved slowly, like an ox obeying its master even though it didn’t want to.
“It still works,” Father called over his shoulder, heading for the hut.
Naima could hear the relief in his voice. She spanked the dust off her hands and clothes, hard, and trudged uphill slowly behind Mother and Rashida.
Six
FATHER HAD PARKED the rickshaw in front of the hut. Naima kept her eyes down as she passed it. Inside she went straight to her mat and pulled the sheet over her head. She felt the thump of her sister landing cross-legged beside her. A small hand fumbled under the sheet to find hers.
“We need to repair it soon,” Mother was saying. “With such a ruined rickshaw, you won’t get any business for weddings or other parties.”
“Both of the repair shops in our village are too expensive,” Father said. “And they don’t do good work.”
“Where will you take it?”
“I heard a rumor that Hassan’s Rickshaw Repair
Shop is opening up again in the next village. Old Hassan was the best rickshaw painter for miles around. ‘The best work at the best prices,’ he used to brag, and he was right. One of his sons must have decided to start the business up again. I’ll take the rickshaw there as soon as it opens.”
“It’s going to be expensive,” Mother said. “We’ll have to get it painted again and fix the dents and tears.”
“Let me see how much extra money I’ll need to make.” Naima heard the rattling sound of the tin bank they kept in the wardrobe.
“We can’t use that money,” Mother said. “That’s for Rashida’s school fees. Here, take this instead. We’ll have to trade it for the repairs.”
Naima yanked the sheet off her head. It was just as she’d feared. Mother had twisted off one of the two gold bangles she always wore on her wrist. She was holding it out to Father.
Naima saw Father looking deep into Mother’s eyes. “You were wearing these on our wedding day,” he said.
Mother smiled. “What’s mine is yours, remember?”
Father took the bangle and put it back on Mother’s wrist. Naima waited for him to declare that he’d never sell it. Instead he said, “We’ll trade it only if I can’t earn enough money.”
Naima couldn’t believe it. That bangle had been given to her great-grandmother by her mother. The soft clinking of two circles had always made music for their family. Now they might lose that music forever. She lay down and covered her face again with the sheet, wishing she didn’t ever have to take it off. The tears were coming fast now. She heard the rustle of her sister getting up. She felt the weight of Father’s palm on her covered head, resting there for a moment. His footsteps crossed the stone threshold. The bell of the rickshaw chimed as he drove away.
Someone gently pulled back the sheet. A soft hand smoothed the tangled hair off her forehead. A low voice began a familiar lullaby. Naima wiped her tears and drew a shaky breath. The pain inside her heart loosened a bit. The pair of bangles was still singing on Mother’s wrist. Maybe Father could earn the money for the repairs.
Seven
AFTER THE CRASH Father no longer came home for lunch. He was trying to find passengers while other rickshaws sat idle. He stayed out until midnight in case somebody needed an emergency ride. But Mother had been right. People didn’t like the look of such a battered and dented rickshaw. They didn’t trust a driver who had let his rickshaw get into such a state.
Every afternoon Naima searched Father’s face. The bangle was still on Mother’s wrist, but for how long? How many days could he work from dawn until midnight without getting sick?
A couple of aunts came to visit, sitting outside on the threshold with Mother. “What’s wrong with Naima?” one of them asked. “We heard she crashed your rickshaw. Why in the world was she driving it, anyway?”
Mother bristled. “Everybody makes mistakes. She was only trying to help. She’s growing up, you know.”
Mother came inside to make tea, and the voices outside became whispers that carried into the hut. “Wrecking a rickshaw is growing up? Doesn’t sound like she was trying to help. Something must be wrong with that girl.”
Saleem rode by, ringing his bell loudly, the white handkerchief poking out of his pocket. He even took it out and pretended to blow his nose, trying to make sure Naima spotted the signal. But she didn’t push back the window covering and wave. She didn’t dash outside so they could exchange a few words. And she certainly didn’t slip over to the banana
grove to meet him. I’m already a disgrace, she thought. If my aunts catch me spending time with a boy, I’ll bring even more shame to Mother.
During the next couple of weeks, Saleem made several more attempts before the handkerchief disappeared and he stopped ringing the rickshaw bell. Naima peeked at him from behind the curtain, fiddling with the white ribbon she kept hidden on her wrist under the long sleeve of her salwar kameez. Life was closing in around her like the bushes had closed in around the rickshaw. She even wished that her parents would punish her for what she had done. But after scolding her that first day, Mother never brought it up again. She seemed to think Naima was feeling bad enough.
“Our daughter’s so sad these days,” she told Father one night, when she thought the girls were asleep. “She doesn’t rush through her chores to paint alpanas. She doesn’t chatter nonstop about crazy ideas and plans. She moves so slowly and keeps so quiet, I hardly know she’s there.”
“She’ll be herself again soon,” Father said. “As soon as we get that rickshaw fixed.”
Father’s confidence helped a little, but Naima still felt empty and numb. When she closed her eyes, the only thing she could picture was Father’s beaten and bruised rickshaw. The image of it blocked the alpana designs that used to dazzle her mind with color. She could hardly remember the countless ideas that used to spin in her mind as she washed clothes or chopped vegetables.
International Mother Language Day, February 21st, came and went. Naima couldn’t bring herself to decorate the family’s hut even though Rashida pleaded with her to try. Rashida and Mother did their best, but the prize went to a girl on the other side of the village.
Relatives gathered at a great-uncle’s house to eat biryani chicken and celebrate the holiday. Naima’s aunts wore new silk sarees, rustling like wind in the rice paddies. Mother put on her party sarees the one she wore every year. Naima noticed the patch she was trying to hide, and how faded the saree looked among the bright colors of the others.
“Any news about the repair shop in the next village?” Father asked.
“I think it’s opening next week,” someone answered. “Hassan’s prices and work were always the best for miles around. The crooks who run the shops around here are spreading rumors about that shop already.”
“What are they saying?”
“Oh, I don’t believe anything they say. They don’t want to lose our business, so they’re making up all kinds of crazy stories.”
“They’re probably telling the truth,” an older uncle said. “The old man tried to train his sons, but neither one was as good as he was.”
“I’ll let you know what I find out,” Father promised.
After the holiday the days slipped back into their pattern. Rashida was back at school. Father was working day and night. Mother and Naima were doing the household chores in silence. And Saleem was riding by stony-faced, keeping his eyes straight ahead as he steered his father’s rickshaw up and down the lane.
Eight
ONE DAY FATHER surprised them by coming home early for lunch. “The rickshaw’s looking worse than ever,” he said. “It’s starting to rust. And Hassan’s shop should be open for business by now. I’ll go there today, and if it’s open, I’ll price the repairs.”
“But … have you earned enough money, Father?” Naima asked, even though she knew the answer.
The hut was quiet. Slowly Mother eased a bangle over her hand and handed it to Father. He slipped the bangle inside his pocket and fastened the button Mother had sewn on his shirt to keep his earnings safe.
Naima’s stomach clenched like a fist. She wanted to shout, cry, rip the pocket open and grab the bracelet, but she knew it was no use. Mother’s graceful movements would never make music again. And it was all Naima’s fault.
Father cleared his throat. “I’ll earn enough money to buy another bangle soon.”
The four of them ate rice and spinach and lentils in silence. Naima made herself chew and swallow, longing to fling herself on her mat and cover her face. But after lunch Father took her hand and led her out into the bright, hot light.
“Look at our alpanas, Naima.”
“I did already, Father.”
“Look closely.”
Naima let her eyes dwell on the fading patterns that Mother and Rashida had hastily invented for the contest. She stifled a groan. She hadn’t cared much on International Mother Language Day, but now the mistakes made her feel even worse.
“Do you think you can improve our alpanas?” Father asked.
“The contest’s over, Father,” Naima said.
“What’s the use of fixing them now? We lost the prize.”
“Don’t do it for the prize,” Father said. “Make them right for their sake.” He dropped a kiss on her head and climbed on the cycle seat. “Tell Mother not to wait up. I’ll head to the repair shop once the customers get scarce.”
Naima watched him pull away in the beat-up rickshaw, her heart sinking. Mother’s bangle would be gone by the time he got home. She turned to frown once more at the alpanas on the threshold. The patterns were so … off-balance. If they’d added a square in this corner and one more paisley on the other two, the weight of the whole design would have worked better.
Rashida was standing at the door. Silently she handed her sister the leftover white rice-powder paste, the brushes, the colored paints made from burnt earth, lentils, and spices. Then she turned and disappeared.
Before Naima could stop herself, her mind began to dance with colors, shapes, sizes, balance, symmetry, patterns. Soon her hands were flying to keep up. She painted for a while, humming under her breath, forgetting everything but her work. Then she sat back and took stock of what she had done.
The revised alpanas on the step didn’t look like the design she might have invented if she’d started from scratch. Those would have been good. But as she looked closely, Naima had to admit the truth, even to herself: these might actually be better.
Nine
THE IDEA CAME WHEELING into her mind as though it had been waiting for the chance. She was still the best alpana painter in the village, wasn’t she? Surely painting rickshaws wasn’t much harder than designing alpanas. Why couldn’t she work for the rickshaw painter in exchange for the rickshaw repair?
Think this through, Naima, she warned herself sternly.
Men in the village sometimes traded work with each other. Saleem had burned garbage the week before in exchange for roof repairs on his family’s hut. The rickshaw repair shops in Naima’s village always hired a boy or two as helpers.
Naima pulled the white ribbon from under the sleeve of her salwar kameez. After tying it in a bow around her braid, she swung the braid in front of her shoulder and waited for Saleem to drive by. She saw his eyes widen as he picked up her signal. Making sure Mother and Rashida were still asleep, she slipped away to meet him.
The banana leaves stirred up a breeze as Saleem pushed through them. “Naima! I was so glad to see that ribbon again. Why have you been avoiding me?”
For the first time in her life, Naima couldn’t meet his eyes. “I—I—er … “
“Are we still friends?” Saleem asked.
Naima looked up and saw the familiar nut-brown face, the dark eyebrows that met in the middle of Saleem’s forehead, the almond eyes full of concern. “We’ll always be friends,” she said.
Saleem’s teeth gleamed like the inside of a coconut. “So what’s your new plan?” he asked.
“How’d you know I have a plan?”
He shrugged. “I’ve known you ever since you were born, Naima. Some of your ideas are crazy, but you always think of something. And a few of them are really good.”
“They are? Like what?”
“You invented that new color for alpanas by mixing crushed marigold petals with papaya rinds, remember? That’s one reason you won the prize last year. And you came up with our secret signal, too. Which nobody’s figured out yet.”
Naima smiled for what felt like the
first time in a long while. Saleem was right: some of her ideas did work.
“So what have you come up with this time?” he asked.
He looked doubtful as he listened to her explanation. “You’ll be in heaps of trouble when your parents find out,” he said. “They’ll never let you go to the shop again. How are you going to earn enough to pay for the repairs?”
“I have the rest of this afternoon and all evening to paint, don’t I? I can pay for a small part of the repairs at least. When Father arrives, I’ll just show him my work. There’s a chance he might let me go back and earn the rest, Saleem. He wants to save Mother’s bangle as much as I do.”
“But you’ve never painted rickshaws before, Naima. Alpanas are different.”
Naima was silent. A part of her mind had been wondering the same thing ever since she came up with the plan. Could she paint a rickshaw?
Saleem stood up suddenly. “You should give it a try. Sitting around doing nothing is harder for you than making mistakes and getting in trouble. I’ll help you do this, Naima.” Before she could say anything, he ran out of the banana grove.
She couldn’t believe how quickly he returned, carrying a bundle under his arm.
“Nobody’s awake yet,” he said. “But you’ll need to hurry. And be careful.”
“Our villages are safe,” Naima said. “I’ll be fine.”
“You’ll be a stranger there, and it’s about an hour’s walk away. I wish I could drive you, but I have to get some paying fares. Father’s going to wonder already what I’ve been doing all afternoon.”
Rickshaw Girl Page 2