Karma (12 page)

I let Maya wander. Follow her nose along the twists and turns of the cobbled streets. A gridless plan designed to confuse an invading army.

At night, it's almost impossible to navigate this labyrinth. Familiar landmarks like carved doors, cantilevered balconies, or a stone elephant's lifted trunk disappear into shadow when the sun goes down. But I've done it. More than once. Just last week after Tejal snuck out of the house to meet me in the alley.
We'll be together one day,
she whispered in the darkness, holding my hands away from her body.
But not now.

Shit. Hari. I meant to give him a letter for his sister.

Dear Tejal,

Our family is in crisis. My cousin from far away has come to Jaisalmer for her health.

I cannot see you for a while. Don't doubt how much you mean to me,

Sandeep

That should do it. Serious. Warm. But uncommitted.

Is on Maya.

Hunched-over beggars.

Widows in white.

The blind.

The crippled.

The bird man, hawk on his arm.

They step out of her path.

The seller of old newspapers.

A banker in white and black.

The scribe and his pen, fingers stained with ink.

But their eyes follow.

Even the homeopath selling sugar for medicine. And the sweet man pouring honey like water.

Do they see what I see? The perfection of her face? Or the look of despair that broke Parvati's heart?

The basket weavers stop weaving.

The tailor puts his needle down.

A monkey handler quiets his beast.

The silversmith lays his hammer on the ground. Even the sadhu stops his preaching as she passes.

Her silence matches theirs.

But not her innocence.

Amma asks how the market went.

(Well, let's see. Shall I tell her that Maya caused a stir wherever she went? Men blushed and turned away. The old fell to their knees shaking. Children held her hand and called her
Lakshmi
. And one woman actually cursed her, shaking her bangles like warning bells. And me? I just followed like a pathetic love-struck servant.)

Went fine, Amma
.
She kept her scarf on.

(I was almost glad when Hari showed up. Being with Maya is like floating inside a dream. Time stops. All I hear is the sound of her breathing.

All I listen for is her voice.
Your face is all mushy, Sandeep,
Hari said, knocking me on the shoulder in front of a table piled with green mangoes.
Shall I tell Tejal you've forgotten about her?
)

Sandeep! Wake up! I am talking to you!

Oh, what, Amma?

You're standing in front of me, but you're asleep!

I asked you if Maya bought anything?

I know Parvati gave her some rupees.

She bought sweets for the children, Amma.

What a wasteful child.

And some flowers for your altar. Marigolds.

Nothing stirs the girl. She has no feeling, Barindra. Parvati must be wrong. She cannot be Sikh. You know how noisy they are. And emotional. Angry, shouting and yelling. Everything except tears.

In the last two weeks they've been hunted like animals,

Mina!

I know! And I don't mean because of their recent troubles. I mean their natures.

They have a strong faith. That makes them passionate. But I don't agree that their temperament is hot.

Perhaps. Assassination is a cool act. But what do you think, Barindra? Will history thank the Sikhs who freed India from Indira Gandhi?

And thank them for bringing us Rajiv Gandhi? With his
mandate to mourn his mother personally and politically? Do you remember what happened during the Emergency? They say he locked up the Muslims and cut off their balls.

Husband! Do not speak to me of such things!

But we must speak of them, Mina. So we don't forget the freedoms she stole.

So you agree that she got what she deserved? Because she didn't hesitate to kill when it suited her?

No. I cannot agree. Murder is never justified. Just as it's not right to look the other way while someone else does it. God granted us life. It's our duty to protect it. For every living being.

And at what cost, Barindra?

At risk to ourselves, when necessary, Mina. If not, our gestures are empty.

Maya is jumping on the cot again. Ropes squealing in the night like a pained animal.

I run up the stairs and throw back the curtain for the second night in a row.

Maya, I have an idea.

I drag sacks of rice to the wall, piling them into soft steps. I bow (embarrassingly deep!), then invite Maya to climb. At the top she moves over so there's room for me too.

I know I shouldn't, but I leap up. (If Amma catches us, I don't know what will happen!)

Together we look out over the clear desert night. A black-domed sky filled with white glitter. And under it, glowing in the pale light of the moon, the towering walls of the Golden Fort.

The parapets,
I whisper.
Where the queens walk. I'll take you there tomorrow.

Maya sighs. Her breath is warm on my shoulder. But I shiver. All the way down my spine.

Shit. I'm a goner.

Every block of honey-yellow sandstone was sliced out of a great quarry and carried on the backs of ten thousand camels.

(Big round numbers impress the tourists.)

For fifty years the trains crossed the desert. The route littered with the humpless skeletons of beasts collapsing under the weight.

(Sacrifice sells.)

Some say the stone quarry is still out there. An open grave luring travellers, thieves, and eloping lovers to its depths.

(Danger, mystery, illicit sex.)

Maya is unimpressed. She's barely listening to the speech I've told a hundred times for a five-rupee fee. (I'm expensive but good.) Instead she stares at the horizon. The smudged line of soft grey enters her eyes like a ribbon of smoke.

I talk into the silence between us.

Like all fortified cities, Jaisalmer has a violent history. Vats of boiling oil hurled over the invaders' heads. Mass murder-suicide of women and children upon
defeat. A poison called halahal. Painful but quick. A preferable death to enslavement by the victors.

(It's all in the details.)

But my favourite story takes place in the thirteenth century. Jaisalmer was about to fall to the emperor of Delhi. The men, dressed in saffron robes, rode out to meet the army and their certain death. The women watched from behind the parapets. Skirts and saris fluttered in the wind. Hands gripped the yellow sandstone for strength. Their palms were raw and cut. Blood stained silk and skin. The women paced while the men were slaughtered. Husbands. Fathers. Sons.

I kneel down to show Maya where the stone has worn away.
Touch here and you will see how sorrow leaves its mark. Steps of grief wore these grooves in the ramparts. See?
I look up.

Her face is furious.

She bites hard into her lip until a thread of blood stains the skin.

You can make a stone sing,
Parvati had said.

I can make a stone cry.

Oh God, I'm sorry, Maya. That was a terrible story to tell.

She turns and walks away from me.

Maya, please! It was insensitive, I know. I was trying to show you that I'm a great tour guide instead of thinking about who was listening.

Her sari snags on the rough-hewn stones. She gathers the cloth into her arms like a bedsheet.

Come on, Maya, slow down! Let me apologize. Let me make it up to you. Somehow.

She starts down a long set of stairs to the city below.

Maya!

At the bottom step she pulls the end of the sari over her head and pushes into a narrow street.

Wait!

She disappears into a crowd. A drip of orange paint.

I CANNOT BELIEVE IT.

This is my town! And I know every inch! Every alley, every door, every loose stone in every street is known to me. There's nowhere to hide that I haven't already hidden. Under a stall in the market. In the shadows of the Jain temples. Behind a carved screen. Under a vegetable cart. Under a woman's skirt.

I CANNOT BELIEVE I LOST HER.

I ask the children.

The merchants.

The women in the brothel.

I ask the beggars.

The priests.

Even the leper who lost his tongue. But she is gone.

Into shadow. Into stone.

I knock frantically on the door of every family I know. Even Tejal‘s. Hari runs to my house to see if Maya's returned.

I don't understand.

Who is this girl who can disappear into air?

Before the voices lead me to an alley.

Who are you? You are very pretty.

A dozen women circling.

But where is your hair?

Pulling. Tearing.

Given to a god in devotion?

Pinching. Poking.

Or cut off for your wickedness?

Spitting in her face.

Stop it!
I shout.

Oh ho ho,
they chant.

Here is her prince.

Hooting and laughing.

Come to save the whore!

I push the women aside and gather Maya into my arms.

Her body trembles like a newborn goat. Her teeth chatter like a glass wind chime. Her eyes hold mine, then drown.

I have failed her. She is marked.

The last rays of daylight follow us through the open door of the house. Will the sun be our shield? Protect us against the certain wrath to come? Maya and I stand in the hallway. Amma is livid. Eyes black like a storm.

I can explain,
I begin.

I doubt it,
she says.

It wasn't our fault.

Is that right, Sandeep?

The unasked question floats.

THEN WHOSE?

Maya bows to Amma, gathers her sari, walks slowly up the stairs. Each footstep acknowledges her guilt.

FAULT.

MY.

WAS.

IT.

My greatest fear—

What if someone reads this diary?

Has become my greatest hope—

She writes. To me.

When?

Last night?

While I slept?

Did she come downstairs?

Slip the book from under my head? Or did I leave it out?

By accident?

On purpose?

OH SHIT.

The other greatest fear—

She knows I‘m an idiot?

Did she read all my words?

Every page? Every thought?

And now what?

A response?

And what a question!

Why is there so much misery in the world?

I must answer her.

Press the pen's nib to the page.

(Just as she did.)

But what?

What's the answer?

The words to soothe her.

(Pain, Maya. It's the only reason I can think of. I'm sorry. —S.)

When I was a little boy, I liked to watch the women wash laundry at the Gadsisar Sagar Tank. Beating the scarves and skirts and saris against the stones, laying them to dry in coloured rows. Sometimes flocks of birds swooped over. White feathers falling onto the striped shoreline.

My favourite part was when the women joined in pairs. Swinging the bands of cloth, walking toward each other, folding saris and turbans in half. Then half again. And again. Until they touched. A square of bright colour floating in their palms.

Sometimes the wind sang through the cotton.

I like it when the wind blows.
—M. (I don't. —S.)

This isn't just my diary anymore.

My secrets, if I had any, are out.

The embarrassing stuff too.

And yet I don't mind.

She writes!

Maybe she's forgiven me.

For frightening her. For losing her.

(She smiled from the kitchen when Amma had her back turned.)

This is now a shared book.

I like the idea.

But how do you write honestly if you know someone is going to read it?

Be your self. Please.
—M.

(I'm not sure I've ever known who that is. —S.)