Outside In Page 12

  Ram fills the glass, sloshing the water over the top as he carries it back to Nek. He holds the rim to the man’s mouth, helps him drink. Even lifting his head from the pillow seems to exhaust Nek.

  “I must go to work.” Nek’s voice is garbled, as if the water is sticking in his throat. He is in no state to stand, much less work. Besides, Ram knows Nek may have no job to go to.

  “You must rest.”

  Nek’s eyes flash doubt. “Nahi. The boss—”

  “You are sick. You should eat.”

  Ram doesn’t know the first thing about caring for a sick person, as he’s never been cared for himself. But he knows that eating is usually a good idea. He scans the little shelves under the basin. Dried lentils, rice, an onion, a few jars of spices Ram can’t read the labels of. Two small cooking pots and a frying pan occupy the bottom shelf. The little stove is really just a burner sitting on the tabletop, attached to a can of propane.

  Ram knows even less about cooking than he does about taking care of the sick. But he knows about getting food.

  His hand goes to his money pouch, but then he remembers he gave all his coins to the gang.

  “I’m going to get you some food,” Ram says. “I’ll be right back.”

  Nek doesn’t answer, but he rolls to one elbow and gestures at the table. A small tin sits in the middle. Coins rattle in the bottom as Ram pries the lid off. He picks a few rumpled paper notes, finds a pair of keys hung on a wire ring buried under them. One is larger, silver and flat. The key to the door, Ram guesses. The smaller one must belong to the padlock on the bicycle. He tucks the keys into his pocket along with the money.

  “Do you . . .” Ram doesn’t know how to ask the question without embarrassing Nek. “Is there a toilet here?”

  Nek points at the door opposite the entrance. “Down the hall. Shared.”

  Ram takes a breath, picks up the foul-smelling bucket with his fingertips, and carries it down the dark hall to a small bathroom. He empties the pail into the hole in the floor, opens the taps, and rinses the bucket out the best he can.

  Nek hasn’t moved by the time Ram returns. “Do you need—” Ram jerks his head back to the bathroom. The man shakes his head.

  Ram replaces the pail. “I’ll be back soon.”

  This time he uses the door, locking it behind him with the key, and flies down the stairs to find food.

  Ram fumbles with the key in the lock when he returns, worried that he’s taken too long. He managed to pick up some apples from a shrine at the corner, a little packet of cooked rice and dal and boiled potato from the man at the samosa stand. He also saw the green cross on the white-painted sign hanging above a shop. It took plenty of waving around of the money he’d brought from Nek’s tin to convince the chemist that he hadn’t come to steal or beg. Once it was clear he was a paying customer, the chemist sold him a small packet of chalky pills that he said would do for fever. Ram hopes he is right.

  Inside, he sets the bundle on the little table and pulls a spoon from a teacup beneath the basin.

  “Uncle ji?” Ram asks as he kneels by the bed with the food balanced on one palm. He checks the pail. Still empty. A good sign, he hopes.

  Nek’s eyes flutter open.

  “I brought food.” Ram dips the spoon into the packet, tilts it into Nek’s mouth. Nek chews forever, Ram worrying that maybe feeding him isn’t the right thing to do.

  He jumps up, grabs the paper envelope containing the pills, and tips two into his palm. “Here!” He holds them out to Nek. “Take these. For your fever.”

  Nek accepts the pills, swallows them with a gulp of water.

  “Thank you.”

  Encouraged, Ram picks up the rice again. Nek takes half a dozen bites more before he indicates that he is done. In moments he is asleep again.

  Ram sits back against the wall. Hungry, he eats half the mixture before he remembers he ought to save some for when Nek wakes. He wraps the rest back in the waxy paper, and then bites into one of the apples. He’s shocked at the noise, but Nek does not stir. Ram munches away, walking around the little room. A small chest sits on the wall opposite where Nek sleeps. Inside are a couple of changes of clothing, an extra blanket. Ram takes the blanket and lays it at the end of the bed in case Nek needs it later. On a shelf above the chest is a cup, a toothbrush, a razor, and a cake of soap. Above the shelf hangs a mirror, cloudy with age. Pasted to the corner of the mirror is a photograph. Ram leans close.

  The photo is black and white, but the image clear. A young woman sits in a stiff wooden chair against a plain background. She is lovely, though she looks serious or afraid, as if she isn’t sure about having her picture taken. A thick black braid drapes over one shoulder. Her clothing is simple, but Ram notices a fine border of embroidery at the edge of her dupatta and at the cuffs of her salwar suit.

  In her lap, a baby sleeps, eyes shut tight, fists curled.

  Ayushee and Vinod.

  Ram stares a little longer. The woman in the photo has no idea Nek is in trouble. Only Ram knows. Only Ram can help.

  He is beginning to understand how. He will still talk to Singh. But without Nek. It will be a gamble. But he has no other choice. And he has preparations to make, a few details to finish. . . .

  But not until Nek improves.

  Ram waits. An hour, maybe more, before Nek stirs.

  “What happened to your face?” Nek asks. The man’s eyes seem more alert. Maybe the pills are helping.

  “Do you want food? Water?” Ram asks, rising from the wooden chair he’s been camped in.

  “What happened to you?”

  It feels like weeks ago that he let the gang of boys catch him, though it was only the day before yesterday. “Nothing.”

  “How did your eye get so swollen?”

  “I . . .” Ram nervously rubs the bead between his fingers. “When I came through the window, I hit my head on the corner of the cupboard.”

  Nek considers the lie, but lets it pass. Then he smiles. “When you clambered through that window, I could only see your silhouette. I thought you were a monkey come to snatch food.”

  Ram grins. “I’m bigger than a monkey,” he says. “But I climb almost as well.”

  Nek’s eyes fall shut again, and Ram wonders if he has passed back into sleep. But then he speaks. “And you came to help me.”

  “I was worried,” Ram explains. “When you did not come to the garden. And when I could not find you at the factory. I wanted to help.”

  “We all need help sometimes, don’t we?” Nek says. His eyes are brighter, but still sunk deep in his face. His voice is still quiet, but not as wispy as before. He looks better, Ram decides. Not well, but better. “Have I told you yet how Hanuman helped Rama?”

  Ram hesitates. Of course he wants to hear the story. But Nek should rest. And Ram has other work still to do. But he can spare a few minutes. And if Nek can get through the tale, it will be a good indication that he will be strong enough for Ram to leave him on his own. Ram sits, tucks his feet behind the braces of the wooden chair.

  “Who was Hanuman?”

  Rama and Lakshmana collected bangles, earrings, anklets, and even precious stones that Sita flicked free of her rings and necklaces. But after months of pursuit, over hill and mountain, the trail grew cold. Days passed without finding so much as a speck of gold. Rama and Lakshmana began to lose heart. But as they searched and their spirits grew lower, someone found them.

  In the shadow of Mount Rishyamukha, there dwelled a band of monkeys. These monkeys were extraordinary, of the kind that no longer exists in India. They were closer to men in their thoughts and statures, but with the long tails and kind faces of the lesser monkeys. This band of monkeys was exiled. Their king, Sugriva, had been overthrown by his wicked brother, Vali. Vali had taken Sugriva’s wife and his throne, and the usurped king had taken refuge in the forest with a handful of his loyal followers.

  Among these followers was a monkey named Hanuman.

  Hanuman’s story was
as full of magic as Rama’s. From the time he was small, he’d been a great favorite of Vishnu, who had blessed Hanuman with great gifts and abilities.

  He had protection from danger, a great power to leap so that it seemed as if he could fly, and the ability to change his shape and size at will. When he saw Rama and Lakshmana in the forest, he felt drawn to them, sensing that perhaps it was dharma that they meet.

  Hanuman approached the brothers, offering food and shelter if they would accompany him back to meet the king of the monkeys. Tired and hungry from their long search, the brothers gladly followed.

  When they arrived at Sugriva’s camp, they were surprised to find the king in such humble circumstances, living among the treetops rather than in his palace.

  King Sugriva wrung his tail, ashamed, as he explained his exile.

  “Then you must steal your kingdom and your bride back,” Lakshmana said.

  “I wish it were so simple. My brother, Vali, is too powerful. When anyone gets near enough to fight him in battle, he can steal half their strength and wield it as his own.”

  “Then attack him from a distance,” Lakshmana said.

  Again, the monkey king said no. “We have tried. But my brother can also thicken his hide, so that it is like the trunks of seven trees. No arrow can pierce such armor.”

  Rama was moved. How similar his own circumstances were to Sugriva’s. Like Rama, Sugriva’s love had been taken from him. Like Rama, he had been exiled from his rightful home. “I will help you.”

  Hanuman’s heart leaped inside him. This Rama truly was noble if he was willing to help Sugriva and face a terrible enemy when he had no part in the conflict.

  “What can you do?” Sugriva asked. “Not even Hanuman can defeat him, though he alone of my great warriors survived our last battle with Vali.”

  Rama did not like to boast. “My brother is able,” Lakshmana said in his stead.

  With nothing to lose, Sugriva followed them as they marched to his former kingdom. He was overjoyed when Rama and Lakshmana made short work of the usurping Vali.

  Reunited with his wife and restored to his throne, Sugriva presented Rama with a priceless gift: a collection of precious stones, gold, and silver that he and his followers had found while in exile.

  Rama’s eyes grew wide. They were Sita’s jewels!

  “Where did you find these?” he asked eagerly.

  “In the forest where we camped,” Hanuman explained.

  “Scattered about?”

  Hanuman considered. “In a sort of line, leading south.”

  “Sita’s trail!” Rama exclaimed. “Show us where you found the last jewel.”

  “My whole army will march with you,” Sugriva said.

  “No,” Rama said. “Not yet. When we need your help, we will send for you.”

  “Then take Hanuman,” Sugriva urged. “He found the jewels. And he can fetch us when you require aid.”

  Hanuman was thrilled. He led Rama and Lakshmana to where he’d found the last of Sita’s gems. They searched on and found another, and then another. Soon they came to the southern shore. And sure enough, they found one last bloodred ruby on the sand.

  On the far horizon, a great green island rose out of the sea.

  “What is that place?” Rama asked.

  “Lanka,” Hanuman said. “The island stronghold of Ravana and his rakshasa army.”

  Ravana, thought Rama. “Does this Ravana have many heads and arms?”

  “Ten heads,” Hanuman said. “And twenty arms. And an appetite for trouble that is even greater.”

  Rama didn’t care. He only cared that he was now so near to Sita and the end of his quest. “We must find a boat.”

  “Wait, Rama,” Hanuman said. “I can cross over.”

  “You?”

  Hanuman had kept his gifts secret until now. But he knew that if the gods had had a reason for blessing him with such powers, this must be it.

  “Please stand back.”

  Rama and Lakshmana stepped back from Hanuman. And to their shock, the monkey began to grow. Where before he only reached their shoulders, he soon grew as tall as the great banyan tree where the holy man had led them so long ago.

  “Wonderful!” Rama said. “But now what?”

  “Now, I jump.” Hanuman grinned. “I’ll find Sita and then come back to you.”

  Hanuman vaulted over the ocean and landed on Lanka, only a tiny puff of sand rising up around his feet. He shrank back to his normal size and hurried from the beach into the jungle.

  Hanuman had tangled with demons before and worried that he might be recognized. So he again used his powers, this time changing his form to that of a black cat. He sped through the undergrowth until he came to the walls of the fortress.

  He slunk up and over the parapet, the demon sentries barely paying him any mind. The vast compound provided plenty of shadows as he searched for Sita.

  In time, he reached the very heart of the fortress: Ravana’s palace. And there in the courtyard, he saw a beautiful woman tied to an ashoka tree. Around her a dozen armed demons stood guard. It could only be Sita. Satisfied, he slunk back to the beach, changed his form again, and leaped back to the mainland.

  “She is there!” Hanuman called before his feet even alit on the beach.

  “Well done,” Rama said to him. “Now, can you carry us?”

  Hanuman shrank back to his normal size. “No. My powers have limits. I cannot carry others. Besides, we need help. There are many, many rakshasas in the fortress, indeed all over the island.”

  “Rama and I have faced demons before,” Lakshmana said.

  “Of course,” Hanuman said. “But not like these. And none like Ravana himself. We need an army.”

  Rama understood. “Fetch your people. We will go together, tear down the stronghold, and rescue Sita.”

  “But how will we get them all across?” Lakshmana said. “We have no boat even for ourselves.”

  Hanuman smiled as he grew tall again, preparing to make his leap. “I have a notion. While I am gone, gather stones. As many as you can find. Great ones and small ones.”

  “Stones?” Lakshmana was almost annoyed. “What good are ordinary stones against such enemies? They will only sink our boats—”

  “Trust me!” Hanuman said as he launched himself north, back to the monkey kingdom, back to the army King Sugriva had promised them.

  So you see, Rama could not have done without Hanuman.”

  Nek picks up his cup, but his hand trembles, so Ram takes it for him and holds it to his lips. He knows the man needs to rest, but he cannot help saying, “But Rama was powerful. Surely he could have found a way.”

  Nek gulps, lies back with his eyes shut. “I suppose. But it is the way of things. No one is meant to be alone. No one is meant to never need help or friendship. Not even gods.”

  In seconds Nek’s breathing evens out, and Ram knows he is asleep.

  Ram’s fingertips worry the grooves carved on the bead at his neck. He flips through the scenes from Rama’s tale, calling each one up like a picture in his mind. Rama breaking the bow, winning Sita. Rama accepting his fate, embracing his exile in the forest though no one else wanted it. Jatayu glimpsing Ravana carrying Sita away. Sita cleverly dropping her jewels. And Hanuman. How wonderful that he appeared at the right moment, that he remembered who he was, what he had been born to do.

  And Ram realizes that Nek is absolutely right. No one is meant to be alone. The truth of it gives him courage to do what he must.

  Ram’s idea grows and changes shape and form like Hanuman himself. He has to leave Nek. Singh will finish work in a few hours. The bullies will be back at nightfall. It is time.

  Ram puts two more pills and some food within Nek’s reach.

  He tiptoes down the stairs. At the bottom, he fits the smaller key into the padlock securing the chain to Nek’s bicycle. He wheels the bicycle out of the alley and onto the street.

  He guides the bicycle, struggling more than once with the tur
ns. He wishes he knew how to ride it. Maybe when this is all over, Nek will teach him.

  He stops once at a busy corner to rest, glancing down and cursing the bike for being so heavy. Something is etched on the top tube of the bicycle’s frame, rust filling in the scratching. It is writing. Ram runs his finger over, feels the rough edges, wonders what it says. One of the words could be Nek’s name, but he can’t be sure.

  It takes him almost an hour, sweating and sore, to push the bicycle back to the garden.

  Sita waits in the slanting afternoon light. Ram must work quickly.

  He leans the bicycle against a tree and hurries to mix some mortar.

  All that remains is her face, and the veil.

  The veil is easy. Ram already worked out how he’d attach it. He dabs a thin bead of mortar around her head, from jawline to jawline, just in front of where her ears would be.

  Then he carefully lays the edge of the dupatta—the hemmed finished edge—along the line, cementing it into place. The folds of the veil fall perfectly, the mirrors licking up the golden light dappling through the trees.

  Nek would be proud.

  Now, her face.

  Nek carved the long straight nose, etched out the full lips, and hollowed out the eye sockets when the concrete was still wet. But Sita is different from the warriors Ram has seen the artist make. Her eyes are deep, waiting for something to fill them in. The warrior statues have only small eyes, squinting in laughter, just slits in the cement.

  He can’t let Sita be seen like this.

  Nek must have had a plan for what he would do for the eyes. There must be something under the tarp. Soon he finds a cigar box that rattles when he picks it up. He lifts the lid. Inside are stones—beautiful ones!—creamy colored, worn smooth as glass. River stones, Ram thinks, and wonders how he knows this. Perfect. He finds two of similar size, shaped like almonds. Then he packs the eye socket on the statue’s face with a bit of cement and settles one stone gently in place. In a moment he has the other done as well.