The Best American Short Stories 2015 (44 page)

The women glanced from one to the other, then they looked at the men.

Cabbage leaf—whose name was Ahmed; Kavitha had heard one of the men guarding the door call him that—waited patiently. When no one moved, he placed his machete next to the pile, seated himself beside it, and said, I'm going to enjoy this. Then he wrapped his arm around the waist of the young woman standing closest to him, and pulled her onto his lap. Yes, I am, he breathed into her neck, pulling her chunni off her shoulder.

The brother of the young woman lurched forward. His mother caught the very end of his wrist but he slipped out. It didn't seem possible in such a tiny space, with so many people crowded into it, but it felt to Kavitha as if he sailed across the berth, his arms reached out as if to strangle the bandit. But Ahmed was quicker. He swerved to the side, so that the brother landed in a heap against the seat. And in a flash of metal, one of the outside guards, the one with the rod, swung at the brother. All Kavitha heard was the
thwack
of metal against bone. The brother let out a howl, gripping his arm. Blood spurted from the wound. His mother kneeled next to him, using the pulloo of her sari to staunch the blood. It wouldn't stop. It was now covering the floor of the berth, pooling around their shoes.

My shoes, Kavitha thought.

Get him out of here, Ahmed growled, We have enough flies as it is. The guard went into the passageway and yelled for help. Another one of the guards came in, and he and the one with the metal rod dragged the brother out. He whimpered as he left the berth.

You see what happens to heroes, Ahmed said.

Their berth was the last in the bogie, on the far end, next to the lavatories. Kavitha, seated next to the door and directly across from the little boy, caught a glimpse of the tiny steel sink that was used by the passengers to brush their teeth, and it was against this sink that the brother was propped up. Blood was still pouring out of the gash on his arm and she wondered if he might die. She looked up, and the little boy was watching her. There was, she noticed, intention in his gaze, and she looked away only when Ahmed addressed her.

You, the leader said, pointing to Kavitha, Give me that.

She had forgotten about her mangal sutra. She'd swapped the gold chain of her wedding necklace for turmeric-soaked thread just before the trip, for safety's sake, but the round lockets were made of gold. How could she have forgotten? She slipped it over her head and handed it to him. Vinod seemed to wince. Was it for her or for the gold? Ahmed bounced it in his palm—the wedding necklace she'd not once taken off in ten years—up and down, up and down, as if weighing the gold. It must still hold the warmth of my skin, she thought. And then she felt a thrill, a rush of heat, flooding her body, to think that a man, any man, held in his hand the warmth of her body.

The boy was still looking at her. Kavitha couldn't understand it—his stare—but she felt too faint to return it. She hadn't eaten in over seven hours; they had emptied their water bottle three hours ago. She closed her eyes. There had been a pregnancy in Kavitha and Vinod's marriage, but the child had been stillborn. The stillbirth had been a culmination of many years of trying for children, and the next time Vinod had reached for her, an appropriate number of weeks after the failed pregnancy, she had looked at him evenly, a little sadly, and said, Please. No more. In her memory, that was the second instance of a flicker passing across his eyes. She knew it was unfair—all of it—but she felt gratitude toward Vinod for understanding, for not having touched her since, and in a small way, he had increased, incrementally, her love for him.

When she opened her eyes, Ahmed was by the window. He was searching the bags of the older couple. The many buckles and belts had been hacked off by the machete, but there were still bundles tucked under the wooden seats, and the couple and their daughter-in-law were making matters worse by their distress, by opening and reopening the same bundles and folding and refolding the same clothes. Most of these clothes were now strewn across the berth. Vinod, who was sitting next to Kavitha, reached over and patted her hand, as if to calm her, but she was already strangely calm. Even with one of the guards standing right next to her, on the other side of the door, close enough to touch, so close that his metal rod was within Kavitha's arm's reach.

When she looked again at the boy, he was looking straight back at her. This time, she slowly came to understand that he was trying to tell her something. But what? Kavitha watched him. And as she did the boy raised his right index finger to his right ear and tapped it. She stared at him. Why was he tapping his ear? Did it hurt? She turned to Vinod but his attention was fixed on Ahmed. When Kavitha spun back, the boy was pointing toward the guard, the one who was standing by the door. What could he mean? She guessed now that he wanted her to listen, but to what? The guard was silent, unmoving. The only other sound was an occasional scream from another bogie, loud enough to travel through the train. There must be other men, in other parts of the train. She had assumed it: these four could not possibly subdue a whole train. But why would he want her to listen to
that?
She strained her ears some more. There were a few night sounds that reached her, an owl, perhaps, or a bulbul, but those were infrequent and could hardly be the reason for the boy's signaling. She knew he wasn't deaf or mute because she'd seen the boy and his father conversing earlier. So what was it?

Then there was a lull. A quiet. For a few seconds, a few precious seconds, there was no screaming, no wailing. Ahmed was busy looking through a bag, and even the old couple and the daughter-in-law were restrained, stoic as they gathered their remaining tattered bags. And that was when she heard it. Footsteps. At first, they meant nothing to her. She looked at the boy, perplexed. He had heard them too, and she knew because he nodded.
They
were what he had wanted her to hear. But why? Kavitha concentrated. Footsteps. She heard them approaching, growing louder. And louder. And then, just as the footsteps passed the guard in front of their door, she arched her neck and saw that it was one of the guards who had come with Ahmed. So he was patrolling the bogie. She had assumed all three guards were standing outside their door, but now it made sense that one of them would have to patrol the passengers in the other berths.

She sat back and looked at the boy. She hardly had a chance to blink when, in the next instant, the other guard passed the one at the door,
going the other way
. She nearly gasped.
Two
of the guards were patrolling. And not only that, since theirs was the last berth in their bogie, one of the guards, at any given time, was probably in the next bogie over. He wasn't even
in
their bogie, let alone anywhere near their berth.

She had thought there were three men outside the door. But there was only one.

Kavitha had no idea what any of this meant, but she knew it meant something. She nearly reached out and hugged the boy. And he seemed to know it because he smiled.

Kavitha sat back. She held her breath. She knew there was not much time. Ahmed had already moved on to searching the bags of the younger sister and her mother. She mapped out the layout of their bogie in her head. There were eight berths, exactly like theirs, behind them. Those berths were being patrolled just as theirs was, except Ahmed had already looted the other eight berths. In front were the two doors, facing each other, that led on and off the train. Past the doors were the lavatory and the sink. And against this sink the brother still slumped. He seemed conscious, but barely. Between the lavatory and the sink area was a narrow passageway that led to the next bogie. She knew all their hope was in front, where the doors were, but that was all she knew.

She thought about the layout, and she despaired. There was no way out, not with a guard standing by the door, and two more approaching or within earshot. It would have to be lightning quick, before the two patrol guards could be alerted, but even then . . .

She looked at Vinod. It was growing dark outside, and all the lights in the train had been extinguished, but she could still see his face, wary of Ahmed's movements, watching him as he unpacked the suitcases of the mother and her daughter. Vinod's body was as it had always been, since the day they'd married, slim, straight-backed, the recent gray at his temples only accentuating his seriousness, his reserve. She wanted, for the first time in the ten years she'd known him, to collapse into his arms. She wanted to weep. She wanted to say, There has to be a way out. How are you holding up? he whispered. Instead of answering she rested her forehead against his upper arm and felt the knobbiness of his shoulder bone, its hardness against the hardness of her forehead; she felt in that moment that the answer must lie in the body, in its unquenchable will to live. Her gaze fell on the little boy's feet; they dangled off the floor of the train and his shoes hung loose around them, a size too big. The end of the piece of twine he'd put in them was visible, near his left ankle. She looked at the piece of twine and then she lifted her head.

The boy still seemed as though he was listening to the footsteps, and when he noticed her gaze, Kavitha pointed at his shoes and gestured for him to pass her their contents. The boy waited for Ahmed to turn away, just as Kavitha had hoped he would, and quickly handed her the two thin, flat pebbles and the piece of twine. There had been a chit of paper, she recalled, but this he kept for himself. Again, nothing was quite clear in her mind, but never had two rocks and a piece of twine seemed to hold so much promise. The contents of her shoes—a necklace, some rings, and a set of matching bracelets—held none.

Kavitha waited. She didn't know what she was waiting for, but she knew she had to wait.

Ahmed, in the meantime, had found the jewelry in the shoes of the young woman. Kavitha became aware of it only when he laughed out loud and said, So
that's
where they are. He turned to face the rest of the berth. Everybody, he said, swinging his machete, his voice rising at their collusion, take them off.

Kavitha slowly undid the buckle of her sandals; all this time, the hem of her sari had covered them. Her necklace fell out first. Ahmed picked it up with his machete. It dangled off the tip like a lizard, like something writhing, and not meant to be touched. He added it to the pile of jewelry on the bench. Just as he turned back toward her, the old man, standing in the corner by the window, clutched at his chest. He let out a long groan and collapsed onto the seat. His daughter-in-law shrieked. His wife was bent over him, pleading,
Kya bhath hey?
What's wrong? Air, someone said, give him air. Ahmed's face bristled. The daughter-in-law rose to take the old man outside, but Ahmed pushed her down. Stay where you are, he seethed. He needs air, she pleaded, he might die. You all might, Ahmed said. He summoned the guard posted at the door. Get the old man some air, he said, and stand where I can see you. The guard stepped into the berth and led the old man to the door. They stood just outside, in the passageway.

Kavitha counted to ten in her head. One of the guards went by. Then the other.

I need to use the lavatory, she said.

The others were busy emptying their shoes. Ahmed took no notice of her.

I said I have to use the lavatory.

Shut up.

It's female trouble, she said.

Vinod gave her a sharp look. Ahmed paused. Leave your shoes here, he said, the pile of jewelry rising behind him like a hill of sand.

The boy looked at Kavitha. She looked back at him.

The brother, the one slumped by the sink, lifted his eyes when she came out of the berth. The bleeding had slowed, it seemed to her, but he was clearly weak. He had gone pale; his clothes and skin were soaked with blood. For a fleeting moment, she thought she might help him, perhaps even by simply lifting him to a sitting position, but she knew there was no room for that. No time. She passed the old man, the guard, both at the window facing the berth, and when she reached the brother, she kneeled swiftly next to his ear, shoved one of the pebbles into his hand (his left; the good one), and whispered, Throw it. Throw it the moment I come out of the lavatory.

She jumped up and ducked inside. Had he heard? Was he even conscious? She listened for the footsteps of the guards. She could no longer hear them, not with the door closed, only when they were just outside the lavatory door would she be able to hear. Breathe, she told herself, taking a breath. Breathe again, she said. And she did this over and over and over again, thinking only of the little boy.

The lavatory had no window. Just a squat toilet, a tap for water, and a handle for grip. The hole was open and showed the gravel on the tracks. She looked through the hole, lined with excrement, and saw the gravel. Every stone the same color, quarried in some distant place, and varying only slightly in shape. The years following the stillbirth had been like that. She had often wondered, during those years, whether she should have named the baby. She decided it was better that she hadn't. Not because she would have felt a greater loss—there was not, she knew, a loss any greater—but because naming the child, a girl they had told her, would have been an act of bravery, and she didn't want to be brave. She wanted all the fears and weakness of a dark, unnamed place. And she wanted to love the child in that way, without hope and without a name.

When both guards had passed and been gone a few seconds, she opened the lavatory door. At the sound of the door, the brother seemed to wake as if from a deep sleep. He looked at the pebble, a little too long, a little too long, Kavitha fretted, then flung it down the corridor. Ahmed yelled, What was that? The guard, the one by the old man, took a few tentative steps past the berth.

This was the moment. This was it.

Kavitha darted past the brother, reached in, and grabbed the little boy's hand. They jumped from the train, through the door near the lavatory, and as soon as they hit the ground, Kavitha handed the little boy one end of the twine, shoved him against the door, and said, Hold it. Tight. She held the other end, on the other side of the door. Ahmed came racing out, they held on until he tripped, and leaped out of the way so they wouldn't break his fall. Then they ran.