River Town Chronicles (7 page)

A few days later, I returned home from the bazaar to find that the monkeys had attacked again. One of them was already sitting on the roof in a familiar posture with another of my shirts stuffed in his mouth and his hands pulling at the sleeves. Pat was yelling at me to do something, while Lori was yelling at the monkey. I was at my wits end, after a number of encounters with the monkeys the last few days had depleted my wardrobe. I looked up and saw our neighbor, Ushajii, up on her roof top. She was laughing hysterically at my predicament.
“Sahabjii, kyaa baat hai?. Phir choori ho gayii?”
(What's wrong, sahab? Have you been robbed again?), she shouted with amusement. I suspected she had been a witness to this hilarious scene before, but today she apparently felt sorry for me.
“Roti lee aao”
(bring some bread) she shouted
“jaldi karoo”
(hurry up). I grabbed a chapatti left over from the afternoon meal and ran back to the wall. “Now, throw the bread over to one side, away from the monkey.” “Then what?” I shouted back. “The monkey will let go of your shirt and run over to get the chapatti. If you can run up on the roof top and grab your shirt before the monkey finishes the chapatti, you can grab your shirt and jump back down off the roof before he returns.” Ah, I thought, the marvels of evolution at work. Charles Darwin would have been proud. “Human outsmarts monkey.” I threw the chapatti to one side, away from the monkey, and began to climb to the roof top. “Better bring a big stick. Just in case,” Ushajii yelled in all seriousness. I grabed a stick on the way up and struggled to the roof top. The monkey eyed me with contempt but continued to stuff the chapatti in his mouth while I quickly retrieved my shirt, a little tattered but still in one piece. I climbed down into the courtyard and held the shirt up in triumph for Ushajii to see.
“Shabash”
(well done,), she said approvingly. “Man (with Ushajii's help) conquered monkey,” I thought to myself. Or was it, “monkey conquered man?” After all, hadn't I just paid a ransom to get my own shirt back?

P
AT WAS SPRAWLED OUT
on the
charpoi
and said she didn't feel well. That wasn't unusual, as we were all suffering various stomach ailments these days. For the most part, however, life continued as usual. Brian squatted on the floor in
bhabhi's
kitchen eating more chapattis and was now able to carry on a simple conversation in Hindi with
bhabhi. “Accha hai Buuriyan?”
(Is it good, Brian?)
“Haan jii, accha hai.”
(Yes, it's good), Brian would reply.
“Lo. Kha lo ek aur chapatti”
(take it. Eat one more chapatti),
bhabhi
would offer.

I needed to go shopping and left Pat dozing on the
charpoi.
Outside the door, Tim was squatting on his haunches next to Chamu, the
mochi.
His eyes were fixed on the sweet shop across the lane. The shop keeper was making a batch of
jalebis
(pretzel shaped sweets). As I was leaving, Tim asked me how the sweet honeylike filling ended up inside the
jalebis.
I told him I didn't know and asked him if he wanted to go with me to the bazaar. No. He said he would rather stay and figure out how the sweet stuff got inside the crispy shells of the
jalebis.

I stopped at the fruit and vegetable stalls and then made my way to the grain and spice shops. On the way back I stopped at Ram Gopal's tea stand. As he stirred the contents of a large kettle he asked me how I liked River Town. I told him we were settled in, but that I had a lot to learn about the town. “Have you met the Raja Sahab?” he asked. I told him I hadn't. “Well you should meet him. I'll see if I can arrange it.” He said that the Raja Sahab could tell me a lot about the history of the town. I thanked him, paid for my cup of tea and headed back home.

When I entered the house, I found Pat still lying on the
charpoi,
moaning. It was obvious that she was sick, but the corner of the room where she was resting was so dark that I couldn't even see how sick. When I suggested she come out in the sunlight so I could take a closer look at her, I was shocked at what I saw. Her skin and eyes had turned yellow. Having seen her condition, I knew we had to get to the hospital, so I flagged down a bicycle rickshaw. Chamu said he would guard the entrance to our house while we were gone. “Don't worry about the children. No one will get past me. They will be safe.” I helped Pat into the rickshaw and we headed out of town, towards the small mission hospital and the New Zealand doctor who worked there. Hindi film music blared from radios in the stalls of food vendors just outside the hospital gate. I helped Pat out of the rickshaw and carried her inside. The doctor greeted us, took one look at Pat and pronounced the dreaded word— Hepatitis. He said she would need to stay flat on her back for six weeks and that she should stay in a room in the hospital. Pat was worried about the children. “Will they get hepatitis?” The doctor said I should bring the children to the hospital the next day. “You will all need gamma globulin shots.” I helped Pat get into her hospital bed. She was too weak to complain about anything and fell asleep as I sat in a chair next to the bed.

When I returned home later that night, I found Chamu sprawled out across the entrance to the house. He was snoring loudly and didn't budge as I stepped across his body and entered the room unnoticed. A fine watchman he turned out to be! But his heart was in the right place, and I woke him up and thanked him profusely for guarding the door.

The next morning, I loaded the children onto the bicycle. Lori sat on the cross bar in front of me. Brian sat on the handle bars and Tim straddled the rack over the back fender. The four of us set off on the bike, lurching and weaving like drunken sailors. In the U.S., cops would have arrested me for reckless endangerment. I rang the bell and shouted
“batch ke bhaaii!”
(watch out, brother). The warning sent pedestrians scurrying to one side as the four of us careened out of town on the way to the hospital. When we arrived, Pat was already restless, wondering how long she would be able to stay flat on her back. “How will you get along without me?” I wondered the same thing myself. She said I should hire a cook and enroll the kids in school. “I've seen kids in their school uniforms. Find out about it.” I said I would.

We visited until noon and before leaving I promised to find a cook and enroll the children in school. I left a pile of books by Pat's bedside, and then the children and I went down the hall to get our gamma globulin shots from the nurse.

R
AM SWARUP GAVE ME THE NAME
of someone to contact about enrolling the children in school. The next day, I visited the school and enrolled Tim, Brian and Lori in a Hindi speaking school that also provided some instruction in English. They were to wear school uniforms—short pants and blue shirts for the boys and a skirt and blouse for Lori. For a small monthly fee, they would be picked up in front of our house in the bazaar and delivered to and from school.

In the morning a bicycle rickshaw with a small trailer attached to the back of the bike pulled up in front of our house. The trailer was brightly painted, and had iron bars on the back door. Tim, Brian and Lori climbed aboard and squeezed themselves in among the other kids crammed inside. As the rickshaw
walla
peddled away, I couldn't help but think that the children looked like prisoners being hauled away on their way to jail. But our children loved it. They loved being with other children their own ages and making new friends. And their Hindi language skills improved dramatically. It didn't seem to matter that they lagged behind the others. They were too busy making new friends and learning the intimate ways of children from another culture. Tim developed a close friendship with a young Sikh boy from a neighboring village and would often spend the afternoon in his village learning to plow the fields. During the harvest season, he would join the other boys in the village chasing after truckloads of sugarcane leaving the village and heading for the mills. Sometimes the boys would run behind the truck, pulling out a couple of canes from the back of the truck before a man sitting on top of the load would swat at them with a cane of his own. It was a challenge which Tim and the other boys thoroughly enjoyed, their reward being to extract the sweet juice chewed from the ends of the canes. Lori and Brian's friends lived in town and before long they were visiting with their school mates. The rest of the time they spent at home, Lori playing with Meena and Paphu, while Brian sat in
bhabhi's
kitchen eating chapattis and adding to his Hindi vocabulary, including questionable words which I suspected she was preparing him to hurl at Kaga.

About a week later, a man arrived at the gate and, after a grilling from Chamu, the
moochi,
was allowed inside. He wore a long
kurta
and loose fitting
pajamas.
He had a grey stubble of beard and liquid eyes. His shoes were scuffed and looked as if they might have been discarded by someone else. He said his name was Shankar and that he knew how to cook “western.” At this point I was desperate and didn't care what he cooked as long as he cooked. He said he could start cooking that night and that he would cook something special for us. He returned that afternoon with his arms wrapped around his waist, and there was a commotion coming from underneath his
kurta,
as if something were trying to escape. He turned away from me and went straight outside to the cooking area. I heard a sudden flapping noise and a few “clucks” before all was silent. Lori ran into the house from the courtyard shouting. “There's a chicken outside and it's not flapping its wings anymore.” I looked outside and Shankar was already plucking the chicken and cutting it up into small pieces. I was thrilled at the thought of a chicken dinner, but at the same time I worried that Ram Swarup and
bhabhi
might suddenly appear and witness the massacre. What would they say about the dead chicken and the smell of cooked meat that was bound to permeate their living area before long? I hoped they would accept it and I marveled at how they pretended not to notice this intrusion on their strictly vegetarian diet.

Later, I asked Shankar where he got the chicken and he said he found it crossing the road on his way here. “I don't think it belonged to anyone. It probably flew off the top of a bus, from inside someone's luggage.” “From inside someone's luggage?” I mused. I figured he was lying and probably stole it from someone. But at this point, I didn't really care where the bird came from. Shankar continued plucking and skinning the chicken and preparing the spices to boil it with. That night we had a delicious dinner of boiled chicken, vegetables and chapattis. The children were thrilled and so was I. That night we slept well with our stomachs full.

A
FTER SIX WEEKS 
of complete bed rest, Pat was at her wits end. The only excitement during her confinement had been a cobra that slithered through the drain in the floor one day and explored the surrounding area beneath her bed. Her screams brought the
chowkidar
(watchman), who stuffed the cobra into a large sack and removed it from the room. My guess is that he probably let the snake loose in the field next to the hospital.