Karma (7 page)

So there was a reason you were at Helen's today.

Helen wouldn't say that because she didn't know I was there.

So, you went to see your friend and she wasn't home.

No. I mean, yes. She was at home.

Jiva, you're not making any sense.

(No, what doesn't make sense is when your best friend steals your clothes, pretends to be Indian, and then does it with the boy you like. And then when you run home across the fields, your face wet with tears and shame, you realize that the piano is silent. And will be forever.)

That day

There
were
other days that I didn't come home right after school. Choir practice. School newspaper. Some afternoons I even pretended I wasn't there. Sneaking into the house, quietly climbing to the second floor-landing. I crouched outside the door, listening to the sad fingers playing the sad keys. Her music was different if she didn't think anyone was listening. Even more heartbreaking.

Sometimes I was caught and Mata became agitated, even angry.
I was waiting for you
, she said.
Worried about where you were.
But we both knew this wasn't true. My mother had no sense of time and no sense of motherhood. And in the last few years had lost her sense of seasons too. I often found her playing the piano with the window wide open in the middle of winter. Snow settled along the sill like white fur.

But we pretended that her anger was real. I kissed her hands and apologized. She patted my face like I was a dog.

But that day, I lingered at the highway where the bus had dropped me. I was trying to decide whether to cut across the field or take the road. I hated the fields in the fall. Charred stubble from the fall burn. In others the sunflower heads hung like a surrendered army. But that day, I heard Beethoven singing with the wind. The song of loneliness. And despair. Though I didn't know real despair yet, the lesson still to come. But I knew loneliness, the empty river that flowed under my skin and through the blackened earth. That's when I turned for Helen's place. An instinct more than a decision. I wanted to know the truth.

Overheard in Helen's barn

Do I look like her?

Not so much. Does she know you have it?

She said I could borrow it.

I thought the two of you weren't talking.

She lent it to me a long time ago. It's silk, you know.

Are you sure you're wearing it right?

I know. I can't quite get this part right.

The gathering at the front.

It looks different on her. Maybe your hair's too short. Or too blond. And you don't have the right jewelry either. Like that sexy nose ring thing.

Okay. Okay. Enough of the comparisons, Michael. I think it looks good on me. Especially when I dance.

Yes. But honestly, Helen, I don't think it's meant to be worn with so many clothes underneath.

You're right. It's supposed to be worn with a long slip.

I was thinking maybe with nothing.

Bare skin? I guess I could try that. Now close your eyes.

The Door

We're taught at school:

If you suspect a fire, feel the door first. If it's hot, don't open it. Go to the window and yell.

Last month's fire drill. Waiting on the school sidewalk without jackets. The air cold enough for snow. Brittle. Knife-edged.
Make a line!
a frantic teacher shouts.
Orderly now, grade nines!

But we're too cold to be orderly,
Michael says loudly.

He walks down the line of students jumping up and down to keep warm and points at the breasts of each girl.
You're cold. You're cold. You're not.

Hmm. Oh, but you're really cold, Helen of Elsinore.

(What? How does Michael know the secret name?)

I think Jiva's cold too,
he says.
Like a lot.
Helen giggles. I cross my arms. And that's when I guessed it. Michael
and
Helen.

Dear Maya,

It wasn't your fault. None of it. Not me.

Not Helen. Don't forget this. We own our lives.

Waves

Get out! Now!

A voice shouts in the hallway.

Waking me.

Hurry!

Fists bang on the door.

Quick! Everyone out!

I feel the hotel door. It's cool to touch but there's a distinct smell of smoke. I throw back the curtains and see billowing waves tumbling outside the window.

Bright flickers of orange ignite in the smoke. Fames leap across the narrow passageway between the buildings.

A fire is seeking oxygen.

Get out! Get out!

(Stay hidden. Wait for me.)

Get out! Or be burned!

Yes or no?

There's no time to think.

Hurry! Hurry!

But I'm not ready.

Be ready, Jiva.

The top of the dresser: passports, rupees, hotel key, and scissors.

The silver blades.

I pick them up and weigh my options.

My braid.

(Could I be a boy?)

Yes or no?

Get out! Get out!

Yes or no? Yes or no?

Faith. Vanity. What does it matter now?

The braid falls beside Bapu's hair. Already a forgotten relic. I push at the dark strands with my foot and recoil. It's like touching dead things.

I strip off my sari and slip, pull on jeans and a T-shirt.

I remove my earrings and nose ring. Rub the
tikka
from my forehead. I look at my slippers. I tear at the beads and sequins. Run them under the tap until they darken.

Hurry!

I slip my feet into wet satin.

Through the open door I see people running down the hall.
Bapu!
I call out, just in case he has returned.
Amar! It's Jiva!
Men run by me, but none is my father. They are all wearing turbans.

Blue. Red. Yellow.

Who or what will save them now? Courage?

God? A sympathetic Hindu?

I hold out the scissors for any who will dare.

It's a trap

A gang carrying sticks waits outside the lobby doors. They shout:
Indira was our mother and we will avenge her!
They don't enter the hotel. There's no need. The guests are trapped. They will either burn or flee through the narrow doors where the clubbing will happen. For the young men this is more efficient. And safer than entering a building about to catch fire.

I push my way back. Against a crowd unaware they run from one danger to another. There must be another exit. A kitchen! Where's the kitchen?

The restaurant is at the back of the hotel. The doors held closed by two white-jacketed men. Rectangular towels hang from their arms like small white flags. Are they are statues or guards of hell? Why haven't they gone home? Don't they realize the danger? And besides, who will come and eat now? The city isn't hungry except for vengeance.

I bang on the doors, but the waiters lean in. I lift my backpack and throw it against the door. The glass holds, but their grip on the handles is loosened. I push the doors open and run past more white-jacketed waiters. They watch me but don't react. Have they seen it all before?

I move along the wall until I find an open window. The drop is far, but it's my only chance. Garbage breaks my fall—cardboard, paper, plastic bottles, food scraps, the sleeping bodies of sick dogs—and then I run. Away from the flames, away from the gangs, away from the cries of broken victims, and into the darkness of the city.

Dear Maya,

Run.

Urn

I forgot Mata.

November 2–3, 1984

Night

I do not sleep.

I listen to my feet.

Running up and down the alleys of Chandni Chowk.

I do not sleep.

I listen to the city.

The angry animal feeding its lust and hatred.

I listen to my breath.

The frightened animal sucking on air.

I do not sleep.

Next to the chai stall in the dusty hours of night.

But dream.

A dead animal.

Brought back to life out of darkness.

The body twitching, the muscles convulsing.

It knows it should run but instead it waits.

Waits.

For me?

I look up at the face.

And then I see.

It's guarding me.

Watching over me.

Eyes and ears sharpened for danger.

When I hear the cry the animal stiffens.

It pokes me in the ribs.

Saying it's time
poke
wake up now
poke
it's time to run again.

Follow me,
the animal instructs.

I know where to go.

I open my eyes.

See the creature bounding through the narrow streets.

A small deer.

Or an antelope?

Boy!

Chai! Chai now!

Boy!
A foot gouges my side.
Get us some chai!

Boy? I run my hand through my hair. Yes, it's gone. That part wasn't a dream. I stand slowly.

Touch my backpack to make sure it's still there. Keep my face hidden until I'm upright, then turn and run.

They chase me, but I'm faster. Is fear quicker than anger?

They tire quickly. Their strength used up. How many times have they raised their arms? Brought down on innocent heads and backs? How many like us? Hair short and ragged.

I run. And run.

There's no time to weep. For hair.

Or ashes. Or life.

The station in Old Delhi

Train stations are for journeys.

Departures. Arrivals.

Train stations are for waiting.

Hot. Crowded.

Train stations are for certainty.

Timetables. Clocks.

Train stations are for order.

Uniforms. Guns.

A train station should be safe.

Waiting

I wait through the day.

(Where are you?)

I wait through the night.

(Where?)

Then a morning. A new day.

But still no Bapu. Not on a platform, or in a ticket line, or in front of the station where the rickshaws wait and the army stands.

He'd know I'd come here.

(Where else could I go?)

He'd remember the tickets. The day of our departure. He'd come if he could. Wouldn't he? He'd realize I was here.

(Wouldn't you?)

More waiting

At noon, the train to Simla departs. Six hours late. Trains to Lucknow and Kanpur, eight hours. Then Bombay. Eleven. Varanasi. Cancelled. Who needs a holy city when there's a holy war?

I watch the half-empty trains arrive. I watch the swarming trains depart.

A rumour starts that Sikhs have poisoned the drinking water. Now everyone will want to leave Delhi and there aren't enough trains.

At seven the sun goes down. And I run out of time. I force my way to the ticket counter. Shove people aside. I need a train. Anywhere. Any cost. But no, not tonight's train to Chandigarh. Can I cash these tickets in?

I say the word
Canada
to the clerk as if it's a magic talisman. I put a pile of rupees on the counter.
For you. Any train
.
Leaving New Delhi. But not to the Punjab. I don't want to be on a train with any Sikhs.

One way. Second Class. Non-AC. Platform 3.

To Jodhpur.

(Wherever that is.)

He'd come if he could. Wouldn't he?

Midnight

The train pulls out at after midnight.
It's late.
Midnight.
It's early.
Midnight. The passengers complain. No one is certain which train we are on.
Bombay? Jodhpur? Lucknow,
insists one man.
No. This train passes through Gurgaon
, another says.
Gurgaon? But that's the wrong direction to Lucknow!
And now four people crowd in front of the open door, staring at the web of tracks passing under the car.

A man jumps off and calls to his wife.
Jump down! We're still in the railyard! There's time to go back and get on the right train!
He runs alongside pleading with her.
Jump, jump or you will be alone!
he shouts.
No! No!
she cries.
I cannot jump!
But suddenly she is in the air, falling. Not making a sound.

I think she was pushed.

Dark

They climb in the dark like river rats onto a barge. Hands and feet scrambling up the barred windows. Footsteps drumming on the metal roof. Their voices shout when they reach the top. But not all make it. Bodies fall past the window.

Are they Sikhs escaping?

Hindus pushing them off?

Or is it only the poor traveling for free?

The conductor enters the car to punch our tickets.

Are we are going to Jodhpur?

Most likely,
he says.
But who can know in these times?

I hear the rumour again. How a train from Punjab pulled into the station. Massacred Hindus spilled out in a river of blood.

I didn't see any blood. All day.

Lock the door. Don't open it for anyone.

Yes. Gangs of angry men can't get into a locked train.

Overheard in the night

-  There's nothing to be afraid of anymore.

-  The further we get from Delhi, the better.

-  Delhi is the craziest city, always out of control about something.

-  Well, this isn't just something.

-  I don't understand why they did it. Those bodyguards. Sikhs have always been the protectors of Hindus.

-  But remember what she did to the Golden Temple.

-  I was brought up believing that Sikhs were the proudest, most courageous people of all Indians.

-  But aren't Sikhs really just Hindus who made up a religion?

-  Yes. But in some ways all religions are made up.

-  Well, I don't understand what's happening. I have Sikhs who are friends. But maybe I don't know anything about them.