Karma (19 page)

- Okay. Okay. A man came.

- Who?

- I do not know.

- A Sikh man?

- He looked Hindu to me. But I did not ask.

- Not his name?

- No.

- You gave the urn to a stranger?

- Oh, no, not me. I would never touch an urn of ashes. We had a cleaner give it to him.

- But he knew about the ashes?

- Yes. Yes. He knew about the urn. Who else would ask for such a thing if it wasn't his?

- Is this the man?

- I cannot tell from this photo. The man had no beard and had short hair.

- Did he say he had been a guest here? Did he ask about a girl?

- Yes, but I told him there was no girl. I had never seen the girl, so there was no girl.

- Did he leave a name, a number?

- No.

- And how do I know you're not lying? Or just too lazy to remember?

- Is that her?

- Yes. That's the girl. If you know something and do not tell, she will haunt you throughout eternity.

- On my own daughter's soul, I know nothing more.

Urn

Mata. Someone came for you. You are not alone.

Kiran Sharma

There are seventy pages of
K. Sharma
in the Delhi phone book. One hundred listings for
Kiran Sharma
.

Start calling,
Sandeep says.

-  Hello. I am looking for Kiran Sharma.

-  No. No Kiran Sharma here.

-  But the name in the phone book says . . .

-  It is wrong.

-  Why would it be wrong?

-  I do not know, but it is. Wrong.
Click.

-  Hello. I want to speak to Kiran Sharma.

-  Bad number.

-  But . . .

-  No buts. Did you not hear me? The number you have is bad.
Click.

-  Hello. Are you Kiran Sharma?

-  Kiran Sharma? Maybe yes. Maybe no. Who wants to know?

-  I am looking for an Amar Singh. He has been missing since the riots.

-  What riots?

-  The riots. After Mrs. Gandhi's death.

-  I do not know what riots you are speaking of.

-  You don't know about the murders? The innocent Sikhs blamed for her death?

-  Rumour. Simply rumour. Not true at all. Now go away. And stop spreading such lies.
Click.

It's a problem,
Sandeep says.
Indians don't like to talk if they can't see your face.

Then why bother having a listing in the phone book?

It's a source of pride to have a number. The real problem is the telephone itself. One cannot see who is on the other end. A banker wanting to call in a loan? A policeman? A government official? A relative who demands money? No, the phone is not for many Indians.

They do not trust what they cannot see.

We make over two hundred phone calls.

Only a few people are certain of their own name.

And none my father's.

Chandigarh

There's another number I could dial. Written on the paper butterfly wing.

(Just in case, Jiva,
Bapu said.
You never know when you might need it.)

0142-3745900

J. Singh in Chandigarh.

But Bapu would know it's the last place I'd go. To a family who can't wait to meet me. And marry me off.

Are you done, Maya?

I show Sandeep the slip of paper.

Do you want to call, Maya?

No. They might lie and say he's there.

Ah, you're a real Indian now, Maya.

Why?

You don't trust anyone.

You're wrong, Sandeep. I trust you.

Heart

I take his hand as we walk.

Rest my head on his shoulder.

My disguise works well here.

The city cares for no one in particular. Everyone has a crime or lie.

And we are no different.

I feel his strength pass into my body.

Every time I weep. Or get frustrated.

Or overwhelmed with the impossible task of finding my father. He finds something that lifts the heart.

A man performing a headstand in a small green park. A flower stall heavy with garlands of jasmine. The sour air from garbage masked by the floral perfume. A cow and her calf asleep in the middle of a busy road. New born puppies rolling under a newspaper. A jewelry store window strung with golden chains.

Will these be the things I'll remember?

Not the fires? Not the stench of flesh? Nor the turbans and scissors and hair? Will I remember the smile of this boy and forget all else?

The High Commission of Canada

Closed.

One o'clock on Fridays.

Reopening Monday 10:00 a.m.

We should have come here first!

Now I have to wait three days!

It is a very nice flag.

What's it mean?

What?

The red flower.

What flower?

That one. On the flag.

It's a leaf. From a sugar maple tree.

So, this sugar tree is everywhere in Canada?

No.

But it is red?

Only in autumn.

And the red bars mean what?

I don't know. Nothing.

Everything on a flag, Maya, means something.

Well, not this stupid flag, Sandeep!

The tree doesn't grow everywhere.

And the bars should be blue. For our oceans.

Maya, I know you're upset. But the consulate will be open on Monday.

Okay.

But I think the red works well.

Sandeep?

What?

Are you trying to make me feel better?

Of course.

And do you know how much I appreciate it?

Yes, I do.

Is it okay if we don't talk about the flag anymore?

Okay. I'm sorry. Three more days, that's all.

He smiles but I see a shadow cross his face.

A bird's wing overhead?

Or his sadness.

Three more days.

And then what?

What will happen? To us?

I think it's the nicest flag in the world.

He's right. But if I look at it too long, I'll just cry.

Evening

Delhi is more desperate after sundown.

The homeless claim their square of shadow. Dogs in packs dig in fermenting garbage while drunks piss across their welted backs. Animal and human howl at a moonless sky. In doorless doorways the children limp. Boneless. Soft as putty.

Another night. Of dark-pressed despair.

Will the roads crack open?

Will the city that smells of bitter anguish swallow her lost?

Don't look, Maya,
Sandeep warns.

I will look.

I search the shadows.

Steal everything I see.

Dark eyes. Ragged hair.

Is that a nervous tick?

A finger touching a forehead?

I purloin every voice.

The deep laugh.

The word that might be my name.

I drag my memory.

For the details of Bapu.

A room

We need somewhere to sleep,
Sandeep says.

Somewhere safe.

We pool our money. Parvati slipped us rupees on the train, but we spent it on the telephone calls. We sold Moomal in Barmer, but not for much. She was so ragged by the time we crossed the desert. Even her tears showed her exhaustion. Or was it sorrow at being left behind?

We can only afford one room, Maya. Will that be all right?

I couldn't sleep if I was alone.

We walk back in the direction of the train station.

Where the cheap hotels shake next to the rails.

A really cheap hotel

A room for me and my little brother.

Your brother?

My brother.

Little brother is so tall.

What's it to you?

And silent. Doesn't talk?

He's mute.

Why?

Why what?

Why is he mute?

Because some people ask too many questions!

Thirty rupees, then. For you and your
little
brother.

No, no! You're a thief!

I give you five and not a paisa more.

You want a room or a toilet?

Thirty rupees. Or go away and come back. Then it will be forty rupees.

I think your mother gave birth to you in a sewer.

Do I care?

Ten rupees.

No. Twenty-five rupees. Take it or leave it.

Okay. Ten rupees.

Three nights.

Are you deaf? Go away, cockroach. You're wasting my time.

Ten rupees, three nights, and a prayer for your soul at the altar of Krishna.

I don't want an insect to pray for
me
.

No, not me, but my little brother who has no tongue in this world can speak to the gods directly.

He will pray for you. Tell me, what ails you? Is it your eyes? Your skin? Your heart?

It's my brain from listening to you!

Thirty rupees for three nights. We will be the most silent of all guests.

And you will have no headache.

Thirty and a prayer?

Don't think too much, sir, or your brain will hurt. Just say yes.

Fine, you little asshole.

Thirty rupees. Pay me now.

Take the key and go.

Don't speak to me again.

Namaste,
good sir.

You won't be sorry for this.

Oh, I'm already sorry.

A room with one bed

He sleeps like a baby untroubled by the noise of rickshaws motorcycles and trucks pounding the air outside the window.

(We don't touch.)

But my eyes stay open with the sound of muscles moving hearts beating shuddering behind this cage of narrow ribs.

(We don't touch.)

He sighs in his sleep.

I sigh in my longing.

The bedsheets rustle.

I toss and turn.

Our breaths filling the space of a room with only one bed.

I can sleep on the floor, Maya. Don't worry. I'm Indian. I can sleep anywhere.

But not me. His flesh calls to mine.

(We don't touch.)

The refugee camp

You Hindu?
asks the guard.
Wanting to cause trouble?

No, sir,
answers Sandeep.
As the poet Surdass said: Owing to ignorance of the rope, the rope appears to be a snake. I am looking for my uncle and my cousin here, his father. See, here is the man we seek.

The passport is open to Bapu's picture. The guard barely takes a glance.

Go ahead, then. Don't expect too much. It's been a month and most have left. We had thirty thousand in the beginning.

Thirty thousand Sikhs?
My promise to Sandeep to not speak didn't last long.
With nowhere to live?

Where have they gone?
Sandeep interrupts me.

Who knows? Maybe your people went back to the Punjab.

You mean, where we belong?
I ask.

Well, isn't that what you want?

Sandeep throws me a look that says:
Don't say
another thing.

Out of the guard's hearing, I say:
Isn't that the thinking behind genocide? Religious groups should either be contained or wiped out? And why are you quoting Nanak?

He was a very wise man of peace. And he was born a Hindu. Now please, Maya, try not to get riled up.

Just look for your father.

Faces

Turbans expose the soul, Bapu said. They make a face strong and open. Lift up the head and shoulders. Raise the man to be tall. Like the warrior in his heart.

But in here the men are small.

Terror has cut them at the knees.

Bending bodies and will.

Hair growing in hesitant patches.

Sandeep and I walk among the crude shelters.

The passport open to my father's photo. Heads poke out of shadows. Lean into sunlight to get a glimpse. The faces are blank. Even the children, experts in dealing with fear, have emptied their eyes of hope.

But they see something.

Through my skin.

My Sikh heart?

My Hindu blood?

Or my foreignness.

And isolation.

Such stares could burn a hole to the core.

No one in here has heard of Amar Singh.

And no one out there has heard of them.

How many husbands, fathers, brothers, and sons had no welcome into death?

No mixing of bone and ash with earth and water.

No cotton to wrap the body.

No songs to carry the breath away.

To the eternal silence.

Only the smell of gasoline—the pungent reminder.

Of humanity.

He isn't here

Don't give up, Maya. Keep looking.

He isn't here.

He might be under one of those canvases.

He might be sleeping.

Or maybe he's fallen into one of the latrines! Or maybe the rats nibbled at him until he was gone!

Or maybe he's giving comfort to someone.

No, Sandeep. He isn't here. He's not one of these half dead. And I cannot believe this is the best the government could do for its people! This is their act of compassion after failing to protect them? Where are the cries for justice?

Maya . . .

It's a hell, Sandeep! Not a place of refuge!

Okay, we'll go. Just a few more minutes . . . .

I run through the shack maze.

Out the gate past the sleeping guard.