Karma (9 page)

You have a fever.

A fever? I consider the word, but it seems so mild a term for the heat that burns under my skin. I place the back of my hand on my face.

(Do I have a mother who does this?)

And then I remember.

No. It's not just a fever. I take a deep breath.

My chest aches as if something has been pulled out from under the ribs.

I know what happened on the train. And at the station.

The woman's small lips are pulled tight across her face. Creased dark brown circles ring her eyes.

You collapsed and were brought here. No one will claim you.

My eyes look past her. A narrow doorway leads to the outside. Strips of sunlight flash like flames as a curtain lifts and falls with a breeze.

Can you tell me who you are? Can you tell me anything? Please. I'm a doctor. I want to help.

The curtain shudders. The wind rises and then is gone. My voice lashed to it.

Not Indian

Someone said that you're not Indian.

(No, I am dead.)

The doctor crouches down to face me directly. Now I can see her face. Her large dark irises and long lashes hide almost all the whiteness of her eyes.

Where are you from?

(From hell.)

But I answer,
J
'
habite à Elsinore
.
Je suis étudiante
. Madame Kirby's practiced phrases fall from my mouth. I must be in hell. I am speaking French.

The doctor looks puzzled. Her long elegant nose wrinkles. Then her upper lip, plum-shaded and stained the colour of wine, curls over the lower. I must be babbling.

Can you tell me your name?
she asks again in Hindi.

Name? A French name? A dead name? But the word forms in my mouth like a bubble.
Maya
, pops out.

Maya. Lovely. I'm sorry, Maya, for what you've seen.

Her hand touches my forehead again. The bracelets ringing like bells.

Did you know that Mrs. Gandhi's death was predicted by many wise men? Some say even Mrs. Gandhi knew what was to come.

Are you a goddess? I want to ask her. Her skin is so perfect. Creamy not brown. Unflawed and unlined. Are you Saraswati?

How can one protect oneself from Fate? It flies out of the darkness, beating its wings, and carries away our souls.

She talks like a goddess.

Don't worry, Maya. In time the world will come to its senses.

She stands up. Her sari rustling like autumn leaves. She seems to float above me, a brightly coloured peacock lifting into air.

When she ducks under the doorway, the curtain follows her like a shadow.
I'll be back soon
.

People are being burned alive.
My parched lips blow out the words.
Burned alive,
I whisper, for the last time.

Guilt

I know I'm not the one who unwrapped the turban, bound the legs, poured the gasoline, and struck the match.

(And I'm not the one who wrapped the orange sari around her neck.)

But I listened to the screams for mercy and was frozen.

(I hid behind the barn door and watched Michael undress Helen.)

Could I have smothered the fire with my body?

(What if I'd gone home right after school?)

Should I have died with him? Fire on my hands?

(I could have followed my father. Not left him alone.)

Is my silence unfounded too?

No. I do not deserve to be found.

Or loved.

Please talk to me,
the doctor begs.
Where's your mother, your father, your family? Let me help you. Someone needs to know where you are.

And sometimes there's nothing left to say to another human being.

Dear Maya,

Forget what you've seen. Let the heart go.

Just sleep. A dream doesn't mean it's not real.

Sandeep's Notebook

November 13, 1984

Top six reasons to (maybe) keep a diary

#1. YOU'RE ALWAYS RIGHT In the middle of an argument with a family member who doubts your memory of events, you can whip out the diary and set them straight.

#2. GIRLFRIEND When your girlfriend wants to know where you've been or what you've been doing, you can find the right date and prove your whereabouts. Undeniable facts!

#3. LIES Fill your diary with lies and you can actually rewrite history and challenge everyone's memory. That's kind of cool.

Okay. That's the same reason as #2. And #1.

#4. LIFE-CHANGING EVENT When something big is on the horizon (you recognize this by the tremours in the pit of your stomach), you can write down everything that's happening and go back later to figure out: WHY ME?

#5. THE LOST GIRL Something's going on there. You don't get it. (Nobody does.) But one day it may all make sense and you could have the pieces to the puzzle.

Oh, great. Now #4 and #5 are the same.

#6. PARVATI When your sister asks you for a favour, you do it.

Top three reasons to (maybe) keep a diary

#1. Lies

#2. Truth

#3. Duty

Top reason to not keep a diary

What if someone reads it?

(And they realize you‘re just an idiot.)

Duty

You know, for most people, a diary‘s just a ribbon of random thoughts vaguely linked by grammatical laws and scribbled across a page when there's nothing better to do.

I mean: why describe life when you can just get out there and LIVE it?

I'd rather do trigonometry.

Tangents bold as horizon lines.

Circles divided evenly by π.

SINE:
Elegantly connected triangular relationships. (From the Sanskrit word
jiva
, Mr. Banerjee explained.)

But girls? They love this shit. Pouring out their innermost thoughts and feelings! Thick as syrup! And honestly, how much is there really to think about? How much is there really to
feel
?

I read Parvati's diary once.

It was full of DESPAIR.

HOPELESSNESS.

(For the poor and sick.)

And not one mention of LOVE.

Still, it managed to be sentimental (maybe girls can't help it!) even though she's the smart one in the family. The DOCTOR.

According to Amma (my adoptive mother), my sister‘s education has almost lifted our family up a caste to where it should be (if it wasn't for me).

Not that Barindra-Pita (adoptive father) gives a rat's ass about social ranking.

Because, you see, I'm the one responsible for our humble stature.

‘Cause I'm the ORPHAN.

THE DIAMOND IN THE ROUGH.

(At least, this is what Barindra told Amma when he brought me home.)

I am the Patels'
GOOD DEED
.

The adopted child who improves the family karma.

In reality, I'm a shepherd's son.

Found under a goat.

My parents dead.

Drowned in sand.

And yeah, that's a bit sad.

Girls like it though.

They get all teary-eyed when I tell them the story.

And then they let me kiss them.

But here's the thing: I'M NOT THE KIND OF GUY WHO KEEPS A DIARY

Words are for talking.

Words are for bartering.

Words are for seducing.

Chandi. Priti. Tejal.

Words are for getting what you want.

Words are not for putting in a book where somebody might find them.

I mean have you ever heard of a seventeen-year-old boy doing such a thing?

But here I am.

Writing.

Because after what Parvati did for me, I can't say no.

Dear Diary

Nah. That's lame. (Be creative, you idiot!)

DEAR LOST GIRL
Who are you?

Whence have you come?

Will you tell me your secrets, o voiceless one? O yuck.

DEAR GIRL-WITH-GODDESS NAME
If illusion be your given name and mystery wears your opaque veil then I, Sandeep, with pen as sword will scribe your silence till you are
cured.

(or till I'm bored)

(till I'm adored?)

(till I am gored)

(or deplored)

(or suitably and deservedly well ignored)

Rhyming diphthongs. How pathetic.

Oh, another thing

Parvati thinks I should write in English!

-
It'll be good practice. You've been out of school for a year now. And if Mother finds your notebook she won't be able to read it!

So here goes. Hope Lost-Girl doesn't mind. (Not that I intend to tell her. Because it's a pretty weird thing to do. Write about someone who has sealed their own tongue.)

DEAR MAYA
My sister insists I keep a record of the comings and goings of a troubled mute girl. YOU. (WHO, by the way, I haven't met yet.)

I am to be your voice until your own returns. This is what Parvati says. (
It's simple, Sandeep.
) A little pompously?

Oh, and no offense, Maya, but when has silence ever helped anybody?

I think Gandhi said something like that.

Added bonus

Parvati thinks this diary is a good way to dig up some history. Mine. My former desert life. Swept from memory by a once-in-a-century sandstorm.

But here's the thing: maybe some things are supposed to stay in the past. I mean, doesn't the PAST mean it's OVER?

Pavarti

It's my sister's fault. How this whole thing started. Her phone call from Jodhpur that caused our mother to run screaming and hobbling down the street with Barindra in pursuit.

-  And why should I keep a notebook, Deedi? You know nothing ever happens in Jaisalmer.

-  Well, something is about to, brother. As I just told Amma, I'm sending a girl.

Okay. I was a little hooked.

-  Sandeep? Can you hear me?

-  Yes. Yes. Are you crazy, Deedi? What kind of girl? Better not be a bride for me!

Laugh. Laugh.

-  Not a bride, Sandeep. It's a girl who was dropped off at the Widows' Home in Jodhpur.

Uh, oh.

-  A child widow? Or a child prostitute? Because either way Amma won't have her in the house. No matter what Barindra says.

-  She's neither. I think she's a foreigner escaping the riots in Delhi. The girl tried to disguise herself. Though I think she's far too pretty to be mistaken for a boy.

Hook sliding under the skin.

-  How old?

-  I'm guessing she's about your age.

SUPER-hooked.

-  Her name is Maya, Sandeep.

My stomach flipped. Just like the time I jumped across a broken parapet on a dare.

I was either going to make it and be seen as incredibly brave or I would fall, break my neck, and be viewed as a fool.

-  Sandeep? Are you still there?

Maya. My heart beat like a desert drum. Palms dripping sweat.

-  Yes, I'm here.

-  She came to us wearing blue jeans and a T-shirt with English words:
Triumph
on the

front.
Never Surrender
on the back.

Now, I don't believe in fate.

-  And her hair is very short. Looks like it was cut quickly and badly. Maybe with a pair of dull scissors.

And I don't believe in destiny.

-  Did I mention, Sandeep, that she doesn't speak? Can't or won't, I'm not sure. But the girl is clearly traumatized. And that's where you come in.

But I was already in. My body was shuddering as if it knew. Something big was about to happen in this dull desert town. And I'd be in the middle of it. With a girl named Maya.

Sing

My sister has a theory about me:
You can make a stone sing, Sandeep.

What she means is that people tell me stuff.

(The butcher in the market substitutes dog meat for lamb.)

Private things. Secrets.

(Hari enjoys dressing in his sister's clothes.)

You have a gift,
Parvati says
. People want to reveal themselves to you.

(Tejal aces her math tests by allowing Mr. Banerjee to touch her breasts — though she won't let me!)

There's no trick to it really. Just listen. Not judge. Once people feel safe it‘s rather incredible to watch. They lean in. Whisper in your ear. Sometimes they even cry as they confess their lie or small crime.

(Our neighbour Mr. Gupta is in love with his wife's sister. They meet in secret and he recites poetry to her. It's possible her third child is his.)

I think if anyone can get Maya to speak, it‘ll be you, Sandeep. She won't be able to resist your charms.

Or my good looks,
I answer.

Laugh. Laugh.

It's no secret that I'm not handsome. In the last year my arms have grown faster than my legs. The hair on my head won't lie flat no matter how much oil I put on it. My lips are too full. My ears flap when there's a wind. I've been likened to a goat. Even Amma described me as such when Barindra brought me home from the desert. I was only six years old when I heard her whisper she'd never seen such an ugly child. Did I have a tail too?

Maya won't be able to resist your voice, brother.

Patience. Patience is everything. If you're not willing to wait, the secret keeper will never tell.

Not another orphan!

Amma hates her already.

When she first heard the name
Maya
her stomach flipped like mine but she threw up all over the floor.

Yellow
aloo bharta
.

Green
moong dhal
.

Soft chunks of unchewed
roti
.

See what you've done, Barindra! I have wasted an entire meal on that girl. And I may never be able to eat again!

Amma is high-strung and sensitive. It's her higher birth, Parvati explained. Born as a Kshatriyas but had to marry into Barindra's lower Vaishyas caste when the match-maker couldn't find a man who didn't mind her limp.

My arrival from a lowly nomadic tribe hasn't helped the downward slide of her social standing. And Barindra's bleeding-heart sensibilities only makes things worse.