Child of Spring

by Farhana Zia

  “And if she questions me, what shall I say?” I asked.

  “Hmm?” Amma draped a cloth over the food to keep the flies at bay.

  “What will I say if Little Bibi asks about the ring?”

  “Remember to mind the chickens along the way.”

  “Pay attention, Amma! What will I say to her if she asks about the ring, hanh?”

  “Tell her you’ll keep your eyes peeled for it!” Amma snapped. “What else is there to say?”

  I turned to leave.

  “Go carefully.” For good measure, she added, “And do not trip.”

  “Okay, okay,” I muttered. “Stop worrying so much.”

  No, I would make sure that I did not trip. There would be no more spills today!

  I walked down into the Big Courtyard between the kitchen and the Big House, one stone step at a time, dodging hens the whole way. The tray was heavy, the food was hot, and Little Bibi was waiting.

  The smell of egg and roti made my stomach rumble. On some days, I got to have a bite from the leftovers, but I wasn’t counting on such good luck today. Little Bibi would probably polish off her breakfast this morning and leave nothing for me.

  Carefully, I climbed up the stone steps leading into the rear of the Big House. I had almost made it without stumbling or spilling anything, but my heart still thumped. Each step was taking me closer to her angry eyes.

  “What will I say when she asks?” I wondered for the one hundredth time.

  Little Bibi didn’t say a word about the ring. She tilted her chair onto its back legs, crossed her arms, and waited to be served.

  I set the tray down before her. “Did you find your ring, Little Bibi?” I asked.

  There! It was out. A real thief wouldn’t bring up the subject, would she? Might Little Bibi change her mind when she heard the concern in my voice?

  But before my young mistress could reply, her mother said, “Don’t talk when you are serving food!”

  I bit my lip. I had forgotten about that rule. It was one of the many things I wasn’t allowed to do in the Big House. I wasn’t allowed to sit in a chair and I couldn’t eat off a nice dinner plate nor sip from a crystal glass. I wasn’t allowed to call Little Bibi’s mother anything but memsaab, the polite address for a woman of her high station. I wasn’t allowed to call Little Bibi by her real name, Munni, either.

  I ducked back against the wall and waited for Little Bibi’s reply. But my young mistress just pushed the omelet around on her plate, not even taking a bite.

  “Your ring, Little Bibi?” I tried again from a safer distance.

  “Enough about the ring!” she barked.

  Oo Maa! Her words were like the thunderclap in the middle of the monsoon season.

  “I only—”

  “Fetch me a glass of water!” Memsaab commanded. “Go quickly!”

  I scampered over to the étagère, where the earthen pitcher sat on the middle shelf. I tried to tip it gently by its long neck, but despite my efforts, water sloshed onto the floor.

  “Careful! Careful!” admonished Memsaab.

  While I was mopping up the spill with a rag, Little Bibi pushed away her unfinished plate and stomped out of the room.

  “Clear the table,” Memsaab instructed. Then, half to herself, she added, “I’ll have to see about getting her a nice new ring for her birthday.”

  A nice new ring. That is exactly what she said. I heard her, plain as day.

  After I cleared away the breakfast things I ran outside. I would find a rickshaw to take Little Bibi to school for a good price; then her frowns would surely change to smiles. “How clever you are to get a rickshaw for only two rupees!” she would say. And she might even add, “I’ll teach you the Angrezi alphabet since you are so clever!” Yes, then she’d be sweeter than buttermilk. She’d be as lovely as a motia flower, like the ones blooming in her garden!

  By now the road was bustling with the sights, sounds, and smells of a town up and ready for business. Bicycle and rickshaw bells sent pedestrians scurrying; the peanut man’s singsong cry was sharp and clear: “Peanuts! Hot, hot peanuts!” The sugarcane press cranked out brown juice, the knife grinder’s stone spun sparks, and urchins laughed and played. So many exciting things happened in a busy street.

  But Little Bibi was waiting and there was no time to get distracted.

  I stood at the Big Gate and peered down one end of the road and up the other, calling, “Rickshaw, rickshaw!”

  As if he heard me, Ramu the rickshaw wallah pedaled around the corner, whistling a popular song from a movie. I flagged him down.

  “Looking for a ride, little miss?” Ramu wiped his brow with his head cloth.

  “Little Bibi needs a rickshaw ride to school and we’re paying two rupees for the ride. Take it or leave it,” I told him in my best grown-up voice.

  “Baap re! You drive a hard bargain, little sister.”

  “And I suppose with the money you’ll buy a black bead necklace for Rukmani, the chicken thief?” I teased.

  “Arrey baba,” Ramu sighed. “Pity a poor man. Would you put in a good word for me with Rukmani?”

  I gritted my teeth. Ramu was such a fool. Didn’t he know that in addition to being a chicken thief, Rukmani was a brazen hussy? Didn’t he realize that behind his back she winked at cross-eyed Ganga the Milk Boy precisely because he had a rich father? Lali and I had tried again and again to save Ramu from Rukmani, but he was utterly smitten. The poor man was a fool in love and there was nothing that we could do about it.

  I left Ramu dusting off the seat of his rickshaw with his head cloth and ran back into the Big House. “Little Bibi,” I panted. “Your rickshaw is here! For only two rupees!”

  “You sure took your time!” said my young mistress. She didn’t even thank me for my shrewd bargaining.

  Chapter 5

  The Big House was still and silent. Big Master was at his office and Memsaab was visiting friends in the elegant parts of town.

  I grabbed the hand broom and went into the dining room. The shiny brown tabletop spread out before me; turbaned men in brocade tunics and pearls stared solemnly from gilded frames that hung on the wall.

  I pulled a chair out, dusted the back of my lengha, and sank into the seat. How soft the damask was! I drummed my fingers on the table. “Fetch hot rice from the kitchen!” I cried. “Hurry! Hurry!”

  I imagined that Little Bibi was my servant and I was ordering her around. “Hurry up!”

  “Yes, Basanta.”

  “Shoo away the fly!”

  “Right away, Basanta.”

  “Tch. Don’t dip your fingertips in the glass!”

  “Very sorry, Basanta.”

  “How many times must you be told? If you talk when you serve, you spit in the food!”

  “A thousand pardons, Basanta!”

  Little Bibi running to my beck and call! It was just too sweet. I stood, patted the seat to erase all telltale traces of my bottom, and rearranged the chair so that it was back to its exact place. Then I picked up the broom and got to work.

  Though my strokes were steady, soft, and low, just the way Amma had shown me, the reeds still sent puffs of dust flying. Swish … swish … swish. I swept up rice kernels on the floor in the dining room, dust balls in the hallway, and bobby pins and movie magazines strewn in Memsaab’s room. Swish … swish … swish. Through the Red Room and the Green Room I went, and next into the passageway, where the light was dim. The tall mahogany bookcase, filled with very old books with gold lettering, stood against the wall.

  I straightened my back, now a little stiff from bending so much. Oo Maa! I was only half done! The clock in the hall struck ten and the sound reverberated through the house. I resumed sweeping, working my way from one end of the narrow hall to the other with deliberate and controlled strokes. Swish … swish … swish … and then … ping!

  My ears perked up. I looked around for the source of the noise. It had come from under the big bookcase. I lay down and, cheek to floor, swept
my palm along the floor from end to end. But I found only dust balls. I probed deeper with the broom and … ping! Aha!

  My heart fluttered as I wrapped my fingers around the object. Was it a coin that might buy me two tablespoons of sweet and sour churan wrapped up in newspaper? I pulled my hand out and opened it.

  Na! It was not a coin at all!

  Underneath the dust, the lost ring sparkled. Nine, ten, eleven stones and a tiny pit where the twelfth one once was. No matter—eleven stones were good too. I rubbed them against my lengha until the ring sparkled, just as it always had on Little Bibi’s third finger.

  I had found it: the very same ring Little Bibi had accused me of stealing yesterday! “Here it is!” I could tell her. “I found it where you dropped it, don’t you know?”

  But would Little Bibi then throw her arm around my neck and cry, “Sweet Basanta, you are invited to my next birthday?” Would she say, “How kind you are to fluff up my pillow and fetch my soft slippers”? Na!

  I pressed my thumb against the stones. They glittered like the pomegranate seeds in Little Bibi’s bowl.

  Little Bibi was a rich girl. She had a pile of nice things. Nice clothes … nice bed … nice books … and soon, her mother had promised her a bigger and better ring.

  I threaded my finger into the golden halo. It fit perfectly.

  “Basanta!”

  With shaky fingers, I took the ring off and slid it into my choli.

  “Oh! Amma?”

  “Aiyyo! Why so jumpy?”

  “It’s just … my back hurts from bending,” I lied.

  “Tch,” Amma clucked. “Rest it a while. I’ll finish up in …”

  I escaped from the room before my mother could finish, my heart beating like a drum. In the Big Kitchen, Tikki was imprisoned under my baby sister’s arm. Durga was asleep; her rounded stomach rose and fell, and she didn’t stir when I lifted her arm gingerly and retrieved my doll.

  “There’s a hole in her stomach,” I had remarked when Little Bibi first gave Tikki to me.

  “It’s only a little one, silly!” she had replied. “And her eyes don’t close properly. Otherwise, she’s perfectly fine for you.”

  Yes, Tikki was perfectly fine for me—and a perfectly fine hiding place for the ring. I pushed my treasure into the hole in her middle, then hid my doll in the kindling pile, under a bunch of newspapers.

  I sat in the shade of the henna bushes listening to crows screaming in the mango tree. The clock in the station tower rang four times. Little Bibi would soon return from school. She’d want me to put her school dress away and bring her biscuits to eat. But for now, I could have a little rest.

  My heart was still racing in my chest and two voices were clamoring in my head. Oi! said one. What have you done, hanh? Are you not now the thief Little Bibi said you were? And the other voice said, Oo ma! Little Bibi is a very rich girl and she’s getting a better ring for her birthday and you will not be invited because you never are! I held both my hands to my ears and repeated a song Little Bibi had taught me. She said it was a rhyme people from Inglistan sang to their children.

  JaknJil went updha hilltu

  Fetchha pel of vaaater

  Jak felldown an brokhis crownan

  Jil com tumblin aaafter aaafter aaafter

  I sang it over and over again. I thought singing would calm my worried heart. But I was wrong.

  Chapter 6

  The clock struck five and Amma and I opened the Big Gate to go home. It had been a long day, filled with curious happenings and jumbled-up feelings. I felt like I was in a dream inside a dream inside a dream

  The walk home seemed unusually long. How many more steps until I could run to the tamarind tree? How much longer until I could be alone?

  “Let’s ride a rickshaw home, Amma,” I pleaded.

  “Daiyya! Why?”

  Because, I thought, I want to admire my ring and because I want to talk to Dinoo Kaka and to Old Nahni hiding behind a star and tell them that I wished really hard and my wish came true at last.

  I hugged Tikki to my chest and felt the weight of the secret that lay inside her. It reminded me of the fiery mango pickle and her countless cries of “Basanta, do this! Basanta, bring that!” Where were the smiles, hanh? Where were the “pleases” and the “thank-yous”?

  “I’m tired of all this walking,” I replied.

  “Daiyya!” Amma exclaimed. “You’ve never complained before!”

  A dip in the road made me stumble and I clutched my doll more tightly. I knew I had to hide the ring better as soon as Amma’s back was turned, and I knew the perfect place to put it.

  “Wash up,” Amma told me as soon as we got home.

  I ran to the water pump without being told twice. “I might be gone a while,” I called over my shoulder. “I’ll be visiting Dinoo Kaka too.”

  I threw some water over my face and sped to the knoll, looking out for Paki and Raju on the way. Luckily, they were not around. I sank to the ground under the tamarind tree, lifted up Tikki’s dress, and fished out the secret hidden in her middle.

  Now it was just me and the ring and Dinoo Kaka in the branches above, and he wouldn’t breathe a word. I slipped the ring on my finger and gazed at it for the longest time. I held my hand out to admire it. As I twisted it this way and that, a ray of sunshine struck up a ruby red spark.

  “Look, Dinoo,” I cried. “Look how the ring shines against my skin!”

  “Caw, caw!” Dinoo Kaka crowed in admiration.

  “Hanh, Dinoo, it is very beautiful, is it not? But I have to put it away soon. Tikki’s getting married in the next hour, you see, and I must attend to a thousand things before Dear Boy’s arrival.”

  As soon as my mother left to scour the pots with coconut husk and ash, I dived under Bapu’s charpai and pulled out the Big Box. I rummaged under Amma’s bright red sari and Bapu’s white muslin kurta, teased up the splinter in the corner, and dropped the ring into the hidden little hollow, where it now nestled as snug as a bug in a rug. I pushed the box back under the cot, satisfied that my secret was safe for now.

  When Amma had returned from the water pump, it took just a little cajoling to get her to agree to another wedding. Just as soon as the sweet milky tea and the laddu were secured, I ran to tell Lali about it. I warned her in no uncertain terms to be prompt and punctual.

  As I waited for Lali to arrive with Dear Boy, I prepared for the wedding. I coaxed the pink back into Tikki’s cheeks with the help of a little spit. I twisted her brown ringlets around my finger and creased the folds of her red bridal sari. I gently nudged aside the mica in my treasure box and picked out a tiny bead necklace for her to wear. My little bride was finally ready.

  I looked about with satisfaction. The dowry was arranged for Lali’s inspection, the tea was piping hot, and the laddu had been divided evenly into seven pieces.

  But Lali and Dear Boy were late! I paced back and forth until Amma told me to stop skittering about like a cockroach, but it was hard to be still. My mind kept going back to the ring.

  At last I heard a drumbeat, winding its way closer and growing louder by the minute. Rat-tat-tat … rat-tat-tat!

  “They’re coming! They’re coming!”

  “No need to shout,” Amma admonished me.

  I heard commotion outside. “They’re here, Durga!”

  Lali lifted the curtain and peered into our hut. “Ganga couldn’t come,” she announced. “He’s helping his father mend the old cobbler’s thatch. He’s so sweet, nai?”

  I didn’t care if the Milk Boy was absent; that’d just mean more bites of laddu for the rest of us. But the crowd outside still seemed larger than expected. I turned to Lali. “Just how many wedding guests have you brought with you, hanh?”

  “We are seven,” she answered.

  Seven? I counted by my finger joints: Lali, the mother-of-the-groom. Nandi, Pummi, Dev, and Hari, the groom’s aunts and uncles. That did not add up to seven.

  “Paki and Raju came too,” Lali sa
id.

  “What? You brought Paki and Raju along?

  She rushed to explain. “They promised to be very, very good.”

  “And you believed them?” Lali was so gullible! Didn’t she know Paki and Raju always spelled trouble?

  But Lali quickly brushed me aside and assumed the demeanor of a proper mother-of-the-groom. “Bas! Bas! Enough chitchat! Tell me about the dowry!” she commanded. “Is the bride bringing with her a large bed, a spacious almarah to hold her clothes, and plentiful kitchen utensils? What about necklaces, bangles, anklets, nose rings, and such? And did you include a pressed and starched dhoti and a fine wristwatch for the groom?”

  “First you must come in.” I stepped back to allow everyone to enter. “Welcome, welcome. Sit, sit.”

  Lali entered first, holding her head high. Dear Boy followed, perched upon Paki’s shoulder. Behind him came Nandi and Pummi, singing a wedding song. Raju followed, beating a ghee tin can, and Dev and Hari brought up the rear, dancing the bhangra dance.

  “Show the dowry, nai?” Lali demanded and I uncovered it for all to “ahh” and “ooh” over. I had scraped together a reasonable assortment of things: a few scraps of cloth, neatly folded; a small cushion for a bed; some old dishes; a matchbox chest; and a few other items.

  Paki squinted at the pile. “What’s that?”

  “Those are brass pots for Tikki’s kitchen,” I explained.

  “Is this a joke?” Raju asked.

  “And that?” Paki pointed at a chipped teacup.

  “It’s a tub for the bride’s bathwater.”

  “So nice,” said Nandi, but the two boys clutched their bellies and laughed.

  “Shut up, you goonda hooligans!” I shouted. “Mind your manners!”

  “Ha. That thing’s a tub?” Raju sneered at the chipped teacup. “Hee hee!”

  “Get a load of the almarah!” Paki added, pointing to Bapu’s shoebox. “Ho ho!”

  “Beware!” I told him. “I’ll run to your mother. Pentamma Mausi will twist your ears so hard you’ll be sorry you came!”