What Do You See When You Look in the Mirror?

by Nikita Singh

  ‘I know about these plants,’ I challenge him, pointing to the plants I’ve just watered. I won’t let getting-yelled-at become my superpower. Every superhero needs to stand up and defend themselves. What kind of superhero gets yelled at and stays quiet? No superhero. Just a regular boy. ‘I can take care of these plants. I do it every day.’

  ‘Really? I’ve only seen you water them one or two times in … your whole life.’

  This might be true, but I don’t back down. ‘Okay, let’s do a competition. You give me two plants to keep in my room, and if I keep them safe and perfect for one month, you’ll … you’ll give me one thing.’

  ‘What thing?’ Nishu Bhaiya tilts his head to the side. He’s acting all serious, but I know he’s smiling inside. He’s always pulling my leg. That’s what Bua always says when I complain to her about him; that he’s only joking around and pulling my leg because I get bothered by it. So, I don’t get bothered by it anymore. Or at least I pretend not to.

  ‘Any one thing? I haven’t decided yet. It can be a nerf gun or a bat or a video game or nachos or a bobblehead or anything,’ I say all the ideas my brain is coming up with out loud.

  ‘Okay, deal.’

  ‘Deal,’ I say in my adult voice, and shake Nishu Bhaiya’s hand.

  ‘Which plants do you want to adopt?’

  ‘Any two plants.’

  ‘Okay, then.’

  Nishu Bhaiya chooses two plants – both just leaves and no flowers – and carries them to my bedroom. He puts them on the windowsill next to my bed. I’m being overconfident, but my teacher says that plants only need three important things: water, air and sunlight. These plants already have air and sunlight. All they need is water. I will water them every morning before going to school, and, in one month, I will win the competition.

  All I have to worry about is deciding what I will make Nishu Bhaiya buy for me when he loses. My head is swirling with ideas. I could get that airplane Lego set my friend has, or a Captain America hoodie, or anything else I want. I will make a list to help me pick. Otherwise, I will never be able to fall asleep at night.

  This is easy. I wake up every morning all on my own when my alarm rings, even before Papa has to come to wake me up. I keep the watering can right under the window. I have only had to fill it up once and it has lasted me four days. Both plants look green and happy. I pull the curtains back, so that they will get sunlight when the sun comes out while I’m in school.

  Today, my watering can is full; I filled it last night because I’m taking this seriously. I pour the same amount of water into both plant pots and put the watering can back under the window. I have to do this only twenty-five more times and get whatever I want from Nishu Bhaiya. As superhero tasks go, mine is pretty easy.

  ‘Popo, no!’

  ‘Yes, I want to water the plant!’ Popo says in his sugar-sweet whiny voice that works on everyone else, but not on me. I know that voice. It’s the voice I used to use on grown-ups, but not anymore. Ever since Popo was born, if I try to talk like that to plead for something, everyone gets annoyed and says, ‘Are you a little baby?’

  ‘No, Popo! It’s not a toy,’ I say in the stern voice Papa uses on me. I pick up Popo’s Hot Wheels car and put it in his little hand. ‘Play with this.’

  As soon as I take the watering can from him, he starts crying. I know it’s not a real cry; it’s the type of cry that gets me in trouble. He only stops after he gets his way. Not this time.

  ‘What’s going on?’ Papa asks from the door a minute later. He looks from me to Popo, then back at me. ‘What did you do?’

  ‘I didn’t do anything. Popo is being ziddi. He’s trying to pick up the watering can, but it’s heavy and I need it to water my plants. It’s a big-boy job, not for little Popo.’ I say everything really fast so that Papa will have to listen before he yells at me for making Popo cry.

  ‘Popo, stop crying,’ Papa says. I can tell that he’s busy and needs to get back to work. He’s already turning around when he says, ‘Play with your Hot Wheels and don’t bother Tutu Bhaiya.’

  Popo continues to cry for a little longer, but without any real interest. Everyone says that he looks exactly like me when I was his age. Some people also say that even now we look exactly the same, but I don’t see it. The only thing we have exactly the same is our hairstyle, and that’s only because Papa takes us to the barber who sits outside under the peepal tree and gives us both ugly, round katori-cuts.

  I pick up the watering can and peek into the pots. One of the plants has shed four leaves. I look at that plant closely and notice that some of its other leaves are turning yellow at the tips. Not as yellow as the leaves that have fallen into the pot, but not as green as the other plant’s leaves.

  I pour extra water in that plant, pick up the fallen leaves and throw them away in the trash can in the kitchen. I have accidentally skipped watering my plants one or two times, ever since I started going to cricket classes after school. It’s two hours long, from 3 p.m. to 5 p.m., and I get really tired from it, which means I need more sleep at night. Then, I wake up late in the morning, and have to run around and get ready, eat breakfast and pack my bag really fast. I forget to water my plants before leaving for school. After school, it’s the same thing all over again: I have to go to cricket practice, take a bath, do my homework, watch TV, eat dinner and go to sleep. My life has become much busier than it was when the competition first began. But I can’t let anymore leaves fall. I have to get back on track and win this.

  More leaves are falling. I keep watering the plant every morning. I sit next to it and sing to it, just like my friend told me he saw on TV. It doesn’t help. I don’t want to ask Aaji or Nishu Bhaiya, because they will probably just tell me that I’m losing the competition because I’m not old enough to take care of plants on my own.

  Instead, I sneak up to the terrace to watch Baba garden. I watch the way he takes care of all the hundreds of different plants he’s grown. He grows flowers, brinjals, green chillies, tomatoes and ladyfingers. He also grows strawberries, but they look smaller than the ones in my books, and taste sour, but we tell Baba that they are sweet and delicious to make him smile.

  I try to write down how much water he gives to every plant, but it’s all different and I can’t keep track. Some plants, he waters every day. Others, every other day, or even once a week. He moves some of the pots around. He digs the soil of some plants and mixes more smelly soil from a bag into it. He has all these grown-up tools to take care of his garden. He calls them belacha and khurapi and weird names like that. I don’t have any of that for my plants and, even if I did, I wouldn’t know what to do with them. Won’t digging the soil make the roots come out and die? It’s too hard to learn how to do all of these different things.

  In the end, I come back downstairs, pick up all the newly fallen leaves and throw them in the trash can. Seventeen, I counted. Then, I look at the dying plant carefully. There are fourteen leaves that look like they’re about to fall down. I find Fevicol from Papa’s cupboard and stick the fourteen at-risk leaves to their twigs.

  I’m playing Jenga with Popo. We’re not playing the way the rules on the little piece of paper that came in the box tell us, because Popo is too small to play games properly. We’ve made our own game with our own rules using the Jenga blocks. This is how it goes: we divide the Jenga blocks between the two of us. I build a wall or a house or a castle with my blocks and once I’m finished building, Popo throws his blocks at them to break down whatever I’ve built.

  It’s really fun. Every time he hits my structure, and everything comes falling down, Popo laughs loudly and rolls around on the floor. I’m having fun too.

  The plants on the windowsill are looking at me. I don’t look back. The competition ends in eight days and my plant only has six leaves left. I counted this morning. It’s all sticks now. There are no green leaves left. The soil is soaked in water, bright sunlight is pouring in through the window and there’s plenty of air in the room, from
the fan I have turned on, but the plant is still dying. I can’t think of anything else I can do. Nothing works.

  Popo is really quiet today. He is usually never this quiet. I look at him to check if he’s okay. Sometimes, when he’s really quiet, it means he’s doing something bad, like putting something in his mouth or breaking something.

  Popo is looking at me.

  ‘Kya hua?’ I ask him. My voice comes out weird and broken.

  ‘No,’ Popo says. He reaches out to touch my face. He rubs the tears on my cheek and shakes his head.

  I don’t want to cry, but I can’t stop. This is so silly. My little brother doesn’t need to make me stop crying. That’s not how this works. My plants are dying, I have to throw away my list of wishes, Nishu Bhaiya will call me a loser and everyone will say that I’m not big enough to do anything. I cry more, but then Popo jumps on me. He covers my eyes and mouth with his small hands to make me stop crying. I fall backwards on the floor, holding my little brother tightly in my arms, and we roll around in fits of laughter.

  On the last day of the competition, I knock on Nishu Bhaiya’s door. My plan is simple. I will tell him what has happened despite my best efforts. I will accept that I lost and watch him laugh at me. I tried my best, and that’s all I can ever do, like Bua always tells me.

  When Nishu Bhaiya doesn’t answer, I push the door open. His room is empty. He’s not here. Now I have to wait to tell him. I walk over to his gaming chair and climb up on it. I push away from the table using my hands and spin in the chair as fast as I can. Soon, I feel dizzy. My feet don’t reach the floor, so I can’t use them to stop. And I’ve spun too far away from the table, so my hands can’t reach anything either.

  ‘Need help?’ Baba calls from the door.

  ‘Yes, please!’ I call back from the spinning chair.

  He rescues me by stopping the chair. I climb out and collapse on the bed to make my head stop spinning. Baba sits down on Nishu Bhaiya’s chair. I have never seen him do that before. He usually only sits in his own chair in his study. At the dining table, he sits at the same chair for every meal. He sleeps in his own bed for his afternoon nap and at nights. I sit up on the bed and pay attention.

  ‘What are you doing?’ I ask.

  ‘I’ve seen you lurk around the terrace when I’m gardening. Is there something you want from me?’ Baba asks in his calm voice. Even though he’s not smiling, his voice sounds like he’s smiling.

  ‘Not anymore,’ I say flatly. ‘I’ve already lost the competition. My plant’s dead now.’ As I say this, my voice shakes. I clear my throat to push it away. Nobody likes it when I cry; everyone always tells me to stop, but sometimes I can’t stop. Like right now, no matter how hard I try, tears collect in my eyes and flow down my cheeks. I wipe them away angrily, but then my lips begin to shake. This is impossible to stop.

  ‘Your plant?’ Baba asks, but I’m crying too hard now to answer. I’ve been crying alone in my room, and when I do that, it’s easy for me to stop after one minute, but now that Baba is here, watching me, I can’t stop. He gets up from the chair and sits on the bed next to where I’m lying. ‘What happened? Why are you crying?’ he asks. All I can think about is that I’ve never seen him sit on this bed before.

  ‘Tutu, what’s wrong?’ Baba asks.

  It takes me a second, but I sit up, wipe my cheeks and sniff the boogers back into my nose. Then, I tell Baba everything. How nobody believes that I’m special. How they tell me I’m too small to do anything. I tell him about the competition, the plants, the watering can and falling leaves. I tell him everything.

  Baba listens to everything, but doesn’t speak when I stop speaking. He thinks for a minute, then says, ‘Not every plant needs the same things to thrive.’

  I don’t know what thrive means, but I understand what he’s saying from the first part of his sentence. ‘What did my plant need?’ I ask.

  ‘I don’t know, I don’t know what kind of plant it is. I’ll take a look if you want me to. There still might be a way to save it. Most plants are resilient, with strong roots. Even if they look like they’re dead, they can have life inside them.’

  ‘Really? Even the plants without any leaves? Just stems?’

  ‘It’s possible. We can take a look.’

  Wow. I feel better already. I’ve lost the competition, but there’s still a chance I can save my plant and prove everyone wrong. ‘Yes, I want to know what happened. I want to fix it!’ I jump off the bed. ‘Let’s go! I watered the plant every day. Sometimes, I watered it two or even three times a day, but the leaves kept falling. Do you think it needed more water? The other plant stayed green with only a little bit of water.’

  ‘Too much water can also cause the roots to decay,’ Baba says.

  I turn around. He hasn’t got up to go look at the plant. ‘What does decay mean?’ I ask.

  Baba looks at me. Then he says, ‘Nothing, it’s not important. It’s most likely not what happened to your plant.’ I relax, and Baba pats the space next to him on the bed. I walk back to him and sit down at the spot he patted. ‘There’s a lesson to be learned here. Do you know what it is?’

  I shake my head.

  ‘It’s that we’re all different, even plants. We all need different things to sustain us, make us happy. Your two plants are a great example to demonstrate this. Both of them received the same things, more or less. You cared for both of them. Yet, one of them flourished, and the other perished. One is doing great, while the other isn’t. This shows us that we all need different things.’

  I nod thoughtfully. I don’t like it when Baba uses grown-up words, but he always explains it in normal words too, so I can understand. He’s talking about plants, but he keeps saying us. Just like in Moral Studies period, we read stories about animals, but, in the end, the teaches always compares it to us, people.

  ‘What do we need?’ I ask.

  ‘You tell me? What do you think you need?’

  I think about it. I need to come up with an intelligent answer to impress Baba. He’s very smart – a professor with a ‘Dr’ in front of his name – not at all easily impressed. What do I need? I can’t think of anything. I make myself think harder, and finally find something I don’t need. ‘I don’t think I need … cricket classes,’ I say slowly, watching Baba’s face.

  Baba chuckles, and I relax. He asks, ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘Because I get tired! It’s so hot outside, and the field is dirty and dusty. It gets in my eyes and nose and hair and clothes and shoes. The older Bhaiyas don’t let us younger players play. They do batting and bowling, and make us do fielding all the time. Sometimes, they let me bat, but then they throw the ball really fast, or spin it all wonky. Then they laugh if I can’t make a run. When I come home, Papa complains about how dirty my uniform is, and Aaji says I’m getting darker and darker in the sun every day. I fall asleep while doing homework, and one time I even fell asleep in class when I was really tired, and the teacher gave me punishment for it. She made me stand outside for the rest of the period.’ I didn’t know I was going to say all this, but the words just come out and I can’t stop them.

  ‘Sounds like you’ve made up your mind.’ Baba sounds impressed. It makes me feel smart and grown-up. ‘What are you going to do about it?’

  ‘I’ll tell Papa!’ I say confidently. ‘Will he be mad? Will you come with me?’

  ‘I will come with you if you need me to.’ Baba gets up and holds out his hand. I get up too, sliding my hands in his rough, gardening hand.

  ‘Wait! What if Papa asks what I want to do instead of cricket? Everyone has to do something. Aashi goes to painting classes, but I get too bored. I used to go to dance classes, but my body hurts too much at night … I have to find something else, or else Papa will never let me quit cricket.’

  ‘Well, I know you’re not small anymore. You’re a big boy. But there’s still plenty of time for us to find out what you need. Don’t worry. We’ll think about it together.’ Baba smiles down at
me and squeezes my hand.

  We have to tell Papa about cricket. He will be mad, because he already bought me all the gear. The uniform, bat, helmet, shoes and pads. But I will be honest with him and tell him that I only like playing with my friends, kids my age. When I play with the Bhaiyas, I don’t have any fun and get double tired. Bua says we don’t have to be very good at our hobbies; we can just have fun. I will tell Papa that. And with Baba by my side, I know Papa won’t yell at me that much. As we go to find Papa, I start making a list of things that I might want to do instead of cricket. It has to be something cool, and something that will help me prepare for the time when I finally get my superpowers.

  Made for Each Other

  ‘What’s the scene like out there?’ Avani asked, looking up as Shraddha walked into the room and sat down on the carpet next to her.

  ‘Everyone’s having fun. The DJ is playing old SRK songs. In fact, some people are having too much fun, if you know what I mean.’

  ‘I don’t. What do you mean?’

  ‘I saw Teeni pour whisky or some such spirit in a half-empty two-litre Coca-Cola bottle. They’ve been passing it around. Some of them are definitely super wasted.’

  ‘Oh God, are you serious? I told Ravi to make sure his friends behaved themselves. Honestly, they act so gawar, rowdy, wherever they go. I told Ravi so clearly, so many times, not to let them do that here.’

  ‘It’s not … that bad, to be fair. They’re just dancing.’

  ‘For now! It’ll only escalate. You don’t know them, Shraddha. You can’t take them anywhere. I knew we shouldn’t have invited them here to our family home, with everyone here.’

  ‘They’re here now though, so just don’t think about it.’

  ‘How can I not! They’ll make fools of themselves and us, in front of everyone. They’ll only get rowdier the more they drink—’