No Ordinary Day (3 page)

The Butterfly Woman

THEY LIFTED ME OUT
of the truck and took me into an alley.

Everything was cement.

No. It wasn’t. There were lots of other things.

There was a man sitting in a shop, tapping leather into shoes.

There was a woman pushing a cart full of bad-smelling stuff she had cleaned out of a latrine.

An alcove held a statue of the goddess Kali, all black with her red tongue pointing out. A young man in a suit and tie stood before her, praying.

Above me I heard a baby crying, and someone was playing music.

I couldn’t stop grinning.

“There is so much going on,” I said. “Thank you for bringing me here!”

“Don’t thank us,” Raj said.

They banged loudly on a green door. No one answered.

“Are you sure she’s in there?”

“She’s there. Where else would she be?”

They knocked again. They kept knocking until a middle-aged woman shouted down at them from an open window up above.

“Are you men crazy? You know my girls don’t get up until eleven. And I don’t rise before noon. Go away.”

“Mrs. Mukerjee. We have something for you.”

“Anything you have can wait until regular business hours.”

She disappeared inside, banging the window shut.

The men knocked again.

The window flapped open.

“You don’t want to make me angry,” she said.

“Mrs. Mukerjee, look!”

I was made to move away from the door and out into the alley where she could see me.

“What in the world is that?” the woman asked.

“It’s a girl.”

“I don’t believe you.”

She started to go back inside.

“She has no parents!”

She stopped and leaned out the window again, taking a hard look at me. I waved a bit and tried to smile. She made me nervous, but I wanted to make a good impression.

“My name is Valli,” I said. “Good morning.” I made the namaste, pointing my fingers together and giving a little bow.

“The only good morning is mid-afternoon,” she said, lighting up a cheroot. She breathed out a puff of smoke. “I’m coming down.”

She disappeared. Then after a moment she opened the green door.

“How do I know you didn’t steal her?” she asked. “I have enough trouble with the police.”

“I climbed on the back of their coal truck,” I said. “They didn’t know. I wanted to get away from Jharia.”

“Wanted the bright lights of the big city, did you? Looks like you brought Jharia with you.” She stared at me some more. “What were you doing in Jharia?”

“Picking up coal,” I said. “That’s all there is to do. But I can read and write and I can speak a little English.” I started to recite the English alphabet, to impress her. I was prepared to go on to Bible verses if necessary. The bicycle teacher had taught us a few of them.

Mrs. Mukerjee waved me to a stop after the letter j.

“And where are your parents?”

“Dead,” I said, even though I didn’t know about my father. “I was living with my aunt but she turned out not to be my aunt, so I left.”

She bent down and stared at me, eyeball to eyeball.

“I don’t like liars.”

I didn’t even blink. “Neither do I.”

She straightened up and talked to the men.

“All right, boys. What do you propose?”

“We thought a finder’s fee might be in order,” Kam said.

“A fee? You want me to pay you? For taking a runaway off your hands?”

“We should have taken her to the nuns,” Raj said. “We should have dropped her off at a temple.” He took my hand.

“Not so fast.” Kam stopped him. “We brought her to you because we know you’ll treat her right. She seems intelligent. She could work for you. And for that, a little thank-you is not out of the question.”

“Intelligent?” Mrs. Mukerjee repeated. “I’m not so sure. See how she’s looking at me, like I’m from the moon or something. Girl, why are you looking at me like that?”

“You look like a butterfly,” I said. “A beautiful butterfly.”

She did, too. The robe she was wearing was loose with wide arms like wings, and the colors were bright and swirly. I hadn’t seen many butterflies, but now and then one would stray into Jharia, just for a quick visit.

The men snickered. Mrs. Mukerjee’s hand went up to smooth her hair. With the other, she patted her robe.

“We could work out some arrangement,” she told the men, “but I’m not giving you cash. That’s too much like buying a child, and I’m against that.”

“How about we take it out in … trade,” Kam suggested.

“I could use a bit of that right now,” Raj said.

“I told you, my girls aren’t up yet,” Mrs. Mukerjee said. “And I need to wash this child off first and see what I’ve got. There may be nothing but more coal under that coal dust. What do you think, girl? Do you want to come work for me?”

“Will I have to carry coal?” I asked.

“Heavens, no. You’ll wear nice clothes and lie around all day. Maybe do a few little household chores, but you won’t mind doing your share of those, will you?”

“It sounds good,” I said. “But just my share.”

“Come back later,” Mrs. Mukerjee told the men. “I’ll let you know then how much trade she’s worth. Go. Your big truck is clogging up the alley.”

“Thank you,” I said to them again as they walked away.

I wanted to watch them drive away so I could wave goodbye, but Mrs. Mukerjee took me inside and closed the door.

“I’m going back to bed,” she said. “Human beings were not meant to be awake this early. My goodness, you are filthy. I’m going to stick you on the roof for now. Don’t touch anything.”

We climbed up the stone steps, higher and higher. I thought of the woman who was not my aunt, making the long climb up out of the coal pit.

I had never been in a building with so many stairs! I smiled and waved at the sleepy women I saw as I looked into the rooms that opened out onto the landing. Some were sitting on mats and drinking tea. I saw children sweeping floors and being fed by their mothers. I smiled and waved. We were climbing stairs too fast for me to know if any of them waved back.

When we got to the rooftop, I had a quick glimpse of the blue, blue sky and of the other buildings. I wanted to rush over to the low stone wall at the edge of the roof and look down. I had never been up so high!

But Mrs. Mukerjee held me back.

“Time enough for playing later. I have to sleep now or I will be cranky when the business opens. And I can’t sleep if I’m worrying about you. So you’re in here for a little while.”

There was a shed on the roof. She opened the door and put me in it. It was empty except for a mat and a pail.

“Pee in the pail if you have to,” she said. “I’ll send someone up in a minute with some food. I assume you’re hungry.”

She closed the door on me before I had the chance to tell her I’d had breakfast already. Then I heard a bolt slide into place and lock me in.

I decided I had better eat every chance I got in case I had to make a run for it.

A few moments later, a very sleepy-looking woman slid back the bolt, handed me a tray of food and locked me in again.

The shed wasn’t very sturdy. It was made of wood boards that were nailed together this way and that. Sunlight easily got through them. If I needed to, I could probably just push my way out.

But first I would eat. I drank the hot tea. I wolfed down the roti and I ate the dal. I sat back on the mat with my back to the wall to eat the banana while I looked at the blue sky through the spaces between the boards. I had the whole mat to myself and my belly was full.

I found myself thinking about the woman who was not my aunt and about Elamma, who was not my cousin.

They would both be back at work by now, my aunt in the pit and my cousin carrying the baby. If they were lucky, they had gotten a good night’s sleep. But that probably didn’t happen. The man who was not my uncle coughed all night, and if he didn’t cough it was because he was drunk, and if he was drunk it meant the children were hungry, and if the children were hungry they would have cried all night. There would be more room on the floor without me, but less coal money, too.

Today would be hard for them. Tomorrow would be the same.

It wasn’t that I missed them, exactly. But I said a prayer to all the gods and goddesses that one day they, too, would be able to sit on a mat they did not have to share and eat a banana that someone else had worked for.

Soap

I DIDN'T TRY TO ESCAPE
. I took advantage of the soft mat and stretched out. I fell asleep.

The bolt sliding back woke me up. Mrs. Mukerjee was there, dressed in a sari instead of a robe. Her hair was combed back. She had two younger women with her.

“You’re awfully scrawny,” she said. “How old are you? Nine? Ten?”

I didn’t know. I shrugged.

“Well, let’s see what we’ve got under all that coal.”

We went back down the stairs to a little square cement yard. The water tap was there.

“Burn those clothes,” Mrs. Mukerjee ordered the young ones.

“I know how to scrub,” I said. “I could wash them.”

“Burn them,” she said again. They were taken away.

At first Mrs. Mukerjee’s assistants just poured water over me. It was cold and felt good. Black streams flowed away from my feet.

“This will take a while,” Mrs. Mukerjee said. “I think I could use another cup of tea.”

She left the other women to it.

With the top layers of dust off me, they started in with the scrub brushes and soap.

I had used soap before. Not often, because it wasn’t food, and food came first when there was money. And the soap only got to me after everyone else in the family had used it first. By then it was gray and slimy.

This soap was different. It had a paper wrapping. When the wrapping came off, I smelled all sorts of wonderful flowers and spices. The lather it made was white and frothy like just-poured goat’s milk.

I felt like the star of a Bollywood film.

They washed my hair with soap that poured from a bottle. The lather this soap made was so thick it held all of my hair on the top of my head as if it were a basket of coal. The women let me whoosh it around with my hands. I laughed and they laughed.

I sat on a stool while one of them worked out the tangles in my hair with a comb and twisted it into a long braid. The other took a smaller brush to my fingernails.

When she got to my toenails, she gasped and backed away.

“She’s hurt. Her feet are all blistered and scarred.”

“They’re fine,” I said. “I don’t hurt at all.”

“Look. The child is injured. These are burns.”

The other woman looked. I tried to tuck my feet under the stool, but they held my ankles.

Mrs. Mukerjee took that moment to return.

“Is there anything left of her now that the coal is gone?”

“She’s too thin,” one of the assistants said, “but her face is pretty. The customers will like her. Her feet are injured.”

Mrs. Mukerjee took a look.

“How did you do this?” she asked me.

“Jharia is on fire,” I said. “It’s not a problem.”

“You are very brave not to cry with such burns and cuts.”

I liked her thinking I was brave, but then I remembered that she didn’t like liars.

“I’m not being brave,” I told her. “I can’t feel anything.”

“You can’t feel anything?” She circled around me, examining my skin. She lifted the braid off my back.

“Look here.” Her assistants gathered around. “Her skin has white patches. Here, too.” She pointed to another patch on my upper arm. “And here.” She pointed to my thigh and my stomach. “Don’t you know what that means?”

“It means I’m getting white,” I said. “Soon I’ll be all white without even buying whitening cream.”

“But the patches will be covered up with clothes during the selection,” one woman said. “And in the rooms, the lights are low so — ”

“Fools!” Mrs. Mukerjee yelled. “Get her out of here!”

“But …”

Mrs. Mukerjee kept yelling. “She is cursed! Unclean! Get rid of her, now! Where are her clothes?”

“I burned them. You told me to.”

“Then find some other clothes for her. Out! Get her out!”

Her assistants jumped into action.

Mrs. Mukerjee grabbed the soap and started to scrub herself vigorously. Then she suddenly stopped.

“Is this the soap they washed you with?”

I nodded.

She screeched and threw it to the other side of the courtyard. She threw with such passion that the soap bounced off the wall and hit her smack in the face.

She screeched some more.

I laughed.

She didn’t like that.

“Where is the Dettol? I must bathe in disinfectant. Get out!” she yelled at me. “Get out! Those men had better not come back here. Get me the Dettol!”

She ran into the building.

The courtyard had no exit, and, anyway, I certainly wasn’t going anywhere until I had some clothes.

I picked up the soap, wrapped it back in the paper and held it low to my side, hoping the women wouldn’t notice. They came back out, breathing through scarves that now covered the lower half of their faces. They tossed some clothes at me and stayed well back. I put on the kurta and trousers.

“What did I do wrong?” I asked.

“You have to go quickly,” they told me. “She’ll fire us if you’re not out of here now. We’ll lose our jobs.”

I had the rewrapped soap in my hand. I picked up the bottle of liquid soap, too, the soap they had used on my hair. I waited to see if they would tell me to drop it.

They didn’t.

Instead, they showed me the exit.

In the blink of an eye I was back in the alley, staring at the closed green door.

“If you ever come back here again, I will tell the police to shoot you,” Mrs. Mukerjee yelled down from her window. “In fact, I will shoot you myself.”

“What did I do?”

“You are cursed. Now get!”

I went.

I walked down the alley and crossed a busy street. I heard car horns and bicycle bells and people yelling at me to get out of the way. I knew there were things happening all around me. People passed and bumped against me. Handcarts and animals tried to share the alley.

But I kept my head down. I was too shocked to look around.

I didn’t understand what had just happened. Why was she so mad at me? My skin was just my skin. It had nothing to do with how hard I could work or how well I could tell the truth.

A lot had happened in a short time. I was in a strange place. I didn’t know anyone, and no one knew me.

I didn’t know what to do.

I almost missed the family that wasn’t my family. I almost missed the coal.

At least in Jharia, I knew what I was doing.

At least there, I had some place to go.

I walked for a little while from one alley to the other. Then I stopped and sat down on a doorstep. I put the soap on the ground and put my head in my hands.

I closed my eyes. I hoped that when I opened them again I would be back in the world I knew, even if I hated it. I cried.

Life passed by me in the alley. I could hear people, motors, bicycle bells, cart wheels. What did any of it have to do with me? I was invisible. I was nothing in Jharia, and now I was nothing in this strange new place I was in, whatever it was.

“‘The burden of sorrow is lightened when I laugh at myself.’”

Whoever was speaking those words spoke them close to me, but I knew he could not be talking to me. Why would anyone talk to me? I was cursed.

I kept my head down.

“Not a fan of poetry?”

I raised my head.

In front of me was an old man with a long white beard. He wore a torn T-shirt over his thin chest and a red and blue lungi. He was leading a goat along by a rope.

The goat saw my head go up and came to say hello.

The goats in Jharia never said hello to me. They were too busy looking for food. This goat came right up to greet me.

It butted its head against my hands. Its nose was soft. Its mouth was smiling and its eyes looked kind.

The old man smiled.

“See? There are still things to be happy about.”

The goat let me scratch the top of its head. When I stopped, it butted my hand until I started scratching again.

“What is poetry?” I asked.

The old man sat down beside me in the doorway. There was plenty of room. He thought for a moment.

“Poetry is life,” he finally said. “Poetry tells us who we are, where we have been and where we are going. It is even more than that. Poetry tells us what we can be.”

“I already know what I can be,” I said. “Nothing. I’m nothing. I come from nothing, and I have nothing and I’ll always be nothing.”

“You have soap,” the old man pointed out. “Two kinds of soap.”

“That’s all I have in this world,” I told him. “I don’t even have any family.”

“You have a lovely green kurta,” he pointed out. “You have a beautiful long braid down the middle of your back. To someone without clothes and without hair, you are a millionaire.”

“The people who gave me this kurta and this braid threw me out. They didn’t like the way I look.”

“You have a tongue,” he said. “And it knows how to form words. You have two hands and two feet and two eyes that can take in all the beauty of my pet goat. To someone who cannot speak, who cannot walk or touch or see …”

“I’m a millionaire,” I finished for him. “But I don’t know what to do. I ran away from the place I thought was my home. I have no place to stay, no one to look after me. I don’t even know where I am.”

“You are lucky,” the old man said. “You are on an adventure.”

“I’m scared.”

“If you were not scared, you would be having just an ordinary day.”

That got through to me. I knew what an ordinary day was like. I did not want to go back to that.

Then it was like I could see a picture of myself, sitting on the stoop with my two kinds of soap, petting a goat. It was a pretty funny picture.

I started to laugh. The old man laughed with me.

“Can I stay with you?” I asked. He seemed like a kind man.

“Of course,” he said. “You are welcome to the same sky as Margaret and me, the same ground, and the same air. It’s yours. Take as much as you want.”

I understood. He didn’t live anywhere.

“Why do you call your goat Margaret?” I asked. “That’s not an Indian name.”

“Because when she tilts her head in just the right way, she looks like the former prime minister of England,” he chuckled. “Now, you will have to excuse us. We are heading to a particularly promising pile of garbage. Margaret has the great gift of being able to find treasures among the trash.”

He got up to go.

“But what should I do?” I asked him. I didn’t want to start crying again.

He looked at me for a moment.

“Give your soap away,” he said.

“Give it away? It’s all I have!” Although as I said those words, I knew they were not true.

“Find someone who needs it more than you.” He and Margaret walked away.

“Wait!” I got off the stoop and went after him. “I don’t know where I am.”

He turned around. “Do you remember the poem? ‘The burden of my sorrow is lightened when I laugh at myself.’ It was written by Rabindranath Tagore. This is his city.”

He moved closer to me.

“You have not landed here by accident. This is the city of great artists and thinkers, of writers and dreamers, of mathematicians and scientists. In this city, people have done amazing things. What should you do? You should do something great, like the others who have made this city their home.”

He walked away.

I called after him. “But what is the name of this place?”

“My child, you are in the city of the gods. You are in Kolkata.”

As he said the name, the skies opened up. Water poured down from the heavens.

The rainy season had begun.

All around me, people scurried to get out of the rain.

I let it stream down on me. It ran over my face and down my arms. It flowed over my head like a blessing.

I laughed and laughed.

I felt truly free.

I took the old man’s advice.

I found a family living on the street. They had their bits of belongings piled around them — a few cloths, a pot, two cups. The mother and father were soaked to the skin, but their children were dry. The parents held up a sheet of plastic to shelter the little ones. The children sat under it, protected from the rain.

As I walked up to them, the rain stopped as suddenly as it had begun. The sun came out. The streets came alive. Peddlers pulled sheets of plastic away from the fruit, padlocks and pots they were selling. Shoemakers relit the flames under their pots of glue and started tapping away at their heels. Street dogs shook the rain out of their fur and sniffed around. People folded up their umbrellas and kept on rushing.

“Namaste,” I said, pointing my hands together as best I could when they were full of soap.

The family did the same, even the youngest.

I held out the bottle of soap and the soap that was wrapped in paper.

At first they shook their heads. They didn’t understand. They smiled and spoke in a language I didn’t know.

I kept holding out the soap. Finally, they took it. They were happy. They showed the soap to their children. The children sniffed the flowers and spices. Smiles spread across their faces.

I made the namaste again and walked away. It felt good to make the family happy and give them something they needed.

But what now? I wondered.

I felt a hand on my elbow.

The woman was there. She gently pulled me back to the family.

They wanted to share their evening meal with me.

It wasn’t much. A bit of dal and a bit of roti. The mother broke the roti and shared it out. We dipped it into the small pot of dal. We couldn’t talk to each other, but when the meal was over, they shared songs from their land and I shared a Bollywood song I had seen on the shop owner’s TV.

When night came, they made room for me on their bit of pavement.

I slept between two of the children. During the night, one of the toddlers climbed up on my back. I was glad to be a softer mat than the pavement.

In the morning, I left.

Nobody really owns anything. We give back our bodies at the end of our lives. We own our thoughts, but everything else is just borrowed. We use it for a while, then pass it on.

Everything.

We borrow the sun that shines on us today from the people on the other side of the world while they borrow the moon from us. Then we give it back. We can’t keep the sun, no matter how afraid we are of the dark.