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The childless Rupa was now partially blessed. Her sister’s prayers had benefited her as well, and the day Nisha moved in with her aunt, she felt she had not valued their efficacy enough.

The first night the child was there, three adults hung about her, watching every bite of puri aloo she put into her mouth. After she had eaten, Rupa changed her clothes, made her brush her teeth and wash her feet, put a little cream on her face, and replaited her oiled hair.

Nisha slept between her uncle and aunt in the middle of a big double bed, the tips of her soft feet and hands shining with the nail polish her aunt had applied to amuse her.

Her mouth was slightly open, her little cheeks round and white. ‘Just look at her,’ murmured her uncle, taken, as everyone must be, by the picture of sleeping innocence. ‘What gave her those nightmares? Something must have happened in your sister’s house.’

Rupa’s heart caught in a beat of sorrow. What a father the man would have made! Yet he never made her feel inadequate, nor had she experienced the hell her sister had.

‘They say nothing happened,’ she slowly replied. ‘Someone is always around.’

‘That is not the same as paying attention.’

As so often, Rupa was struck by her husband’s wisdom. Of course something had happened, the child’s sudden nightmares were sufficient testimony. But what? She never went outside, it had to be something within the house. Sexual suspicion, never far away where a girl was concerned, hovered in egalitarian fashion over Banwari Lal, Pyare Lal, Yashpal – no, no, no, too improbable – Ajay, Vijay – no, no, too young – and Vicky … yes, Vicky was just right. As she reached her conclusion, waves of hatred for the boy submerged her. Sona was right, he was a black crow, a vulture, pecking at whomever he could. When would he finally leave? Till that moment she was determined to keep the girl. If it meant presenting uncertainty as fact to her sister, so be it. The child’s life was at stake.

Nisha now found herself in an atmosphere very different from the one she had lived in. As the only child she was the centre of interest, concern, and attention.

She came back from school to the smell of pickles maturing, the fragrance of frying savouries, the sight of slices of mango, cubes of lemon, slivers of chilli, and mottled dates soaked in lemon juice all drying in the sun.

‘You and Uncle eat so much pickle!’ she remarked, such abundance demanding comment.

Rupa laughed. ‘Who can eat so much? I sell it. It is my business.’

Nisha stared at her. Rupa laughed again. ‘You know that shop in Karol Bagh? The one near your father’s? Roopams? Some of the pickles, chutneys, and sherbets there are mine.’ She laughed again – indeed, she couldn’t stop laughing. At home Nisha’s father, grandfather and uncle were never amused about business. Maybe it had to do with pickles.

‘Your Papaji helps me,’ went on Rupa. ‘Now come, take off your uniform, wash up, then we will eat,’ she said, extending a hand that smelt strongly of mustard oil and chillies.

Gradually the girl’s bad dreams grew infrequent. In their cessation Rupa found proof that the demon lay in her home – otherwise, would such a small child willingly leave her mother? She could only marvel at the spirit that made her scream till she was rescued.

Rupa’s husband Prem Nath was small, thin, and dark, with clever eyes, a neat moustache, and sparse hair combed smoothly back. His pastel-coloured bush shirts hung straight and limp over his pants. He was a mechanical draughtsman with the Air Headquarters under the Defence Ministry. His job was to draw detailed parts of Russian and American planes when something went wrong. This enabled local imitation and removed the need for importing expensive components.

Like so many men in government positions he felt undervalued and underpaid. His salary and his privileges were on a par with those of men who did nothing, knew nothing, and cared nothing.

That was the trouble with government jobs. Security of employment was guaranteed democratically for able, unable, deserving, undeserving, conscientious and unconscientious. It was unjust and frustrating.

He had sat for the IAS exam once, knowing he would never be able to pass. But what was the harm in trying? When he was disqualified at the interview stage his detachment deserted him. He knew it was his clothes, his small-time air, that went against him. Bitterly he registered with the Employment Exchange and took the first job that was offered. It guaranteed security till retirement, a phone, and a minuscule flat in a high-rise. The flat he rented out illegally – with the pittance he was paid, he was entitled to make whatever money he could on the side. Most of his energy was spent in fighting his case.

He did not regret not having children. Part of his capacity to think, felt his admiring wife, was reflected in his stoicism. To want children was another word for I, me, mine. It was easier to be free without such attachments. Besides, India had enough children.

Such thoughts earned him the reputation of the philosopher in the family.

Prem Nath despised the fuss that had been made over Sona’s so-called barrenness. Vicky was not considered child enough. No, they had to have their own flesh and blood. Such a merchant-like quality. Traders, shopkeepers, with not an idea in their heads, not a book in their past. If he thought like this, he would not send a paisa to his sister to help with her children. Rupa may say what she liked, but his assistance was far more generous than the charity doled out to Vicky. Thank God his family knew how to share. Though poor, their hearts were large.

Two sisters more different than Sona and Rupa he could not imagine. One self-obsessed, complaining, and dissatisfied, the other a well of sweet water from which everyone drank. Maybe it was thwarted maternal instinct, but the latest example was the niece that his wife was treating like a daughter. He hoped Rupa would remember this was a borrowed child and would one day have to be returned.

Shortly after Nisha’s arrival, Prem Nath came home from work carrying two books.

‘Here, beti, see.’

Nisha looked.
Stories from the Ramayana
and
Jatka Tales
.

‘Arre, how can she read such big fat books?’ scolded Rupa. ‘Why didn’t you get her the k, kh, ga?’

‘I know the k, kh, ga,’ said Nisha indignantly.

‘Of course you do,’ said Prem Nath. ‘These I am going to read to you. I am sure nobody bothers with such things in that house of yours.’

While Rupa wondered whether the aspersions cast on Sona’s family should gratify or annoy, Prem Nath put Nisha on his lap and started showing her the pictures.

And so Nisha’s greater education began. Prem Nath became a regular visitor to the second-hand bookshops of Daryaganj. Often pencil-marked, dog-eared, sometimes torn, yellowed, and smelling of wet paper, they were still books, and her uncle made sure Nisha treated them with respect.

Months passed, Nisha close to six, and was about to exhaust the possibilities of play school. Weren’t her parents going to see about a proper educational institution, thought the uncle irritably. In most schools applications had to be submitted by the end of December. He could make enquiries, but he was afraid this might be overstepping avuncular boundaries.

‘Isn’t that family of yours going to do something?’ he demanded of his wife. ‘Fine way to abdicate responsibility, dump the girl here and forget her.’

‘How can you say that? They are always sending us things so she is more comfortable.’

‘I hope they realise children are not brought up on things,’ said Prem Nath, ignoring the reference to the heater and geyser that had been the most recent offering. ‘They need thought, attention, timely action.’

‘Why don’t you take the initiative about her school?’ demanded Rupa in turn. ‘Bhai Sahib is in the shop all day.’

‘Yes, making money is more important than his daughter,’ flashed Prem Nath. He knew the family had suffered during Partition, over Sunita’s death, over Vicky’s upbringing, but they were making money, and therefore their suffering was held to be of a dubious nature. They were not involved in a long and useless lawsuit to claim what was rightfully theirs. In fact, what was rightfully theirs went on multiplying.

His wife did not take his taunts seriously. It’s only his manner of speaking, she would laugh, his heart is so large, just see him with the child.

‘I am sure Didi will approve any school you chose. Poor thing, how can she know where to go, or who to talk to? Bhai Sahib is always busy, she needs you,’ flattered Rupa now.

First Prem Nath approached his brother-in-law. He wanted no allegations of meddling. A matter of unnecessary precaution, perhaps, but in his position he had to be careful. The balance between crude money and intellectual superiority should have made everything equal, but to his sorrow he often found this was not so.

He decided to talk to Yashpal at his work place. He didn’t feel like getting Sona’s uninformed opinion on Nisha’s schooling, nor did he feel like acknowledging indirect references to various gifts. He dropped in at the shop, noticed the small garland of winking red lights that adorned the pictures of the Devi and Babaji, greeted Lala Banwari Lal in front of the cash box, nodded at his brother-in-law, who was unfolding gorgeous Kanjeevaram sari after sari before three choosy women, and seated himself at the far end.

Prem Nath hadn’t been to the shop in a long time. Giltsplashed mirrors covered the wall next to him. There were glass doors at the entrance, and the atmosphere was air-cooled. The benches were crowded with customers, more were making their way to the basement. Prem Nath tried to calculate the amount of profit the Banwari Lals must be making in a month, then gave up. There was too much he didn’t know.

A boy brought him a cup of tea and a plate of Dalima coconut cookies. Prem Nath had not seen the gesture that resulted in this, but gratefully sipped, nibbled, and waited.

Yashpal looked at the man sitting next to the mirror-covered wall. It was unusual to see his brother-in-law in the shop, they always met at home, and during the past months, always with Nisha. He sighed.

When he came home every evening, he missed her, but there had been one casual reference of Rupa’s to Vicky that prevented him from demanding her return.

‘How well Nisha is settling down, of course she misses everybody at home, but between you and me, Bhai Sahib, I think it well if she stays away until some other arrangement is made about Vicky. In a family matter one cannot say more.’

‘Has Nisha said anything?’ was all Yashpal could manage.

‘She is just a child, what can she say?’ said Rupa, ‘But notice how she avoids him. I have been observing, only then am I saying.’

‘Does your sister know?’

Rupa shook her head.

‘You cannot be sure – besides, she was never left alone.’

‘It is my duty to warn you,’ replied Rupa stiffly. Really, her husband was right about these people. ‘Otherwise, she is your child, you can do what you like.’

‘I will see,’ said Yashpal, hating his sister-in-law. Who was she to make these allegations? After all he had done for her.

Every time his daughter came home clutching some dogeared books, resisting Raju’s attempts to snatch them, he noticed how happy she looked. He saw how the uncle and aunt doted on her, heard the many stories told of her, watched her climb into Rupa’s lap when Vicky was there, and observed his own wife preoccupied with her son – the fruit of years of sacrifice and, as with such fruit, demanding of ceaseless attention. With an aching heart he realised wisdom lay in doing nothing.

‘They are spoiling her,’ Sona sometimes complained in front of the grandparents – to let them know there were others in the family who could spoil her children.

‘Nisha will bring raunaq to that household,’ said Lala Banwari Lal comfortably. ‘Rupa is someone who takes care.’

Sona looked proprietary, while Yashpal told himself that children were meant to be shared. If Nisha was flourishing in her aunt’s house, and the childless couple experienced joy as a result, he should not stand in the way. As daughters, sisters, and wives, women lit up their households, and it was Nisha’s good fortune that, despite being a mangli, she could start so early. Besides, one should not be too attached.

Now Prem Nath was asking about schools. He knew he was also asking how much part they could expect to play in Nisha’s life. Did he share Rupa’s suspicions?

‘You are doing so much for her, too much I think. Perhaps she would be better off at home with her brothers,’ he probed.

‘She is a very good girl,’ Prem Nath responded, ‘but it is better if she is brought up away from boys. They are very rough. All her screaming has stopped now.’

A pause, and then Prem Nath could not help a small display of the little one’s power. ‘My father loves her. Every night he tells her a story from our scriptures. And how she remembers everything!’

‘She is yours. I rely completely on you, Bhai Sahib, to send her to a good girls’ school. That she reads so much at her age is due to you.’

‘She picks up things very easily. Just have to tell her once,’ said the uncle, trying to be modest.

Distance was a consideration in choosing a school. Prem Nath didn’t want the child travelling long hours in a bus. And of course gender was a consideration, he didn’t need the father to tell him that. A girls’ school would provide a traditional upbringing, and after her probable experience it was best there be no exposure to boys. The school had to have labs, the girl should be able to do science if she wanted.

He visited all the suitable institutions in the area and filled in every form. If the child passed the entrance examinations, and she was so bright there was no reason why she shouldn’t, then his final choice would be the New Horizon Public School. He liked the compound, the facilities were modern, the Principal caring. Nisha would do well there.

Both he and Rupa appeared for the parent-teacher interview. She lives with us, we are her guardians. They had decided to say this to avoid bothersome requests for the signatures of the parents.

Nisha was tested for Class I: English, Hindi, and Maths. She passed with flying colours.