Outside In Page 13

Ram steps back, surveys his work. Better. But not quite.

  Her eyes stare too blankly. He dips his little finger into the bucket of mortar and dabs a quick dot of cement in the middle of one creamy white stone eye. Yes. That’s better. He has to do the left one twice, having placed the iris too far to the outside on the first go, but when he is finished, he is pleased.

  She looks like a queen. Just like the real Sita. Like a work of art.

  He’d like to give her eyes a chance to dry before he takes her out into the street, but he’s running out of time. He readies the bicycle, lining the crate with burlap scraps so the bangle edges won’t snag on the wood. Then he goes to lift Sita.

  She’s heavier than he thought. And his muscles feel loose, his legs wobbly when he manages to get her up in his arms. He moves deliberately, testing each leg before he trusts it, making his way to the bicycle. He struggles to lift Sita high enough to clear the rim of the crate. She drops unceremoniously, and Ram’s heart pounds. Is she broken? But from what he can see, Sita is not only beautiful, but sturdy as well.

  He pulls the bike to the road. The sky burns orange and pink. The light dances madly off the mirrors. She’ll attract too much attention this way. Ram leans the bike against a tree, goes back and fetches another sack to drape over her head.

  But in the clearing, he hears something. Voices.

  Coming from Shiva’s ridge.

  Clutching the bag, Ram crouches and listens.

  The voices have stopped speaking, but now he hears a sound like an elephant crashing down the path. Beams from two electric flashlights dance in the gloom.

  No.

  “Down here’s a bunch of garbage, Uncle.” Peach Fuzz’s voice is unmistakable. “The rat stole it, you can be sure, just like he stole my new watch. I bet it is material from all the construction in town.”

  He’s back already? He must have decided Ram wouldn’t pay, or maybe just decided he’d rather make Ram pay by destroying the garden.

  They draw closer. The man with him breathes heavily. “Slow down, Vijay. There is no hurry.”

  And then Ram glimpses the man’s face. He is round and short, with eyebrows like the red-and-black crests of hoopoe birds.

  Singh’s commissioner.

  Ram slinks out, silent as a panther.

  He fetches the bicycle and Sita, pushing as fast as he can toward the noise of 22.

  There is still hope. Maybe if Singh can give him enough money, he can keep both the boy and his uncle quiet.

  A few hundred yards from the path, halfway back to the sector, Ram steps onto a groomed bed of gravel. The road crew was busy today. The pavement has inched closer to the garden.

  Soon it will pass by the garden. Soon more people will have reason to venture out here.

  More people will discover the secret.

  But he can’t worry about them now. There is nothing he can do to stop the road. Only perhaps to buy Nek some time to figure out what to do next.

  He has to find Singh.

  By the time he reaches the shrine at the corner, his arms and legs are weak. His belly feels as empty as a tiffin at supper time, but he wishes harder for water, anything to drink. His throat is dry and rough—these cold nights lately, he guesses. But he doesn’t dare stop.

  The factory emits its usual noises and smells. As Ram passes the gate, the guard comes out to watch him.

  “That’s the trashman’s bicycle.”

  Ram doesn’t answer.

  “What’s that in the basket?”

  Ram ignores him.

  The dancing school lady is also in her doorway, seeing her students off. Ram catches her eye. She frowns, tilts her head to the side. Ram reaches up and pulls the cover a little higher over Sita’s head.

  A crew of street sweepers is hard at work, picking up torn paper, sweeping ash, the exploded shells from hundreds of fireworks. One of them notices Ram, speaks to the others. They laugh. Ram can’t quite hear them. They seem oddly far away.

  Rakesh is cleaning his pots. “Have you seen Singh uncle today?” Ram asks.

  Rakesh makes a face. “Where did you get a bicycle?”

  “From my friend,” Ram says. “I borrowed it.”

  “I just saw Daya a minute ago. Sri Singh has not left yet.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Boy, you look terrible. Here—I have some leftovers—”

  This might be the first time Rakesh has offered him anything for free. But Ram’s belly clenches at the thought of food. He waves him off, continues walking. The bicycle is getting so heavy.

  At the corner, Daya is bouncing a tennis ball against the wall. “Ram!” She misses the ball when she sees him. “I’ve been worried about—”

  “Is your father still here?”

  Daya nods. She eyes the crate. “Is that—”

  “Go get him, please.”

  Daya bolts up the steps, flinging open the door before the doorman has time to pull it for her. The doorman eyes Ram curiously.

  Ram holds the bike steady as he kneels awkwardly next to it. Why does my head seem to keep moving even when I am still? he wonders.

  The doorman opens the door, and Singh and Daya hurry down the steps.

  “Ram, what’s going on? Daya says you need help.”

  Ram swallows. “I have come to help you.”

  Singh smiles in surprise. “Oh?”

  “You need art,” Ram announces. “For your museum.”

  “Ram—”

  Ram sways on his feet. “You like art. And you have money to spend?”

  Singh holds an arm out ready to catch Ram should he fall. “What’s going on?”

  “Listen,” Ram pleads. “You want the art to be special. To be like India. To be real. Yes?” He practiced the words over and over in his head, but now it is all he can do to even speak. But maybe Sita can speak for him.

  “Ram, are you all right? You look unwell.”

  Ram uses the frame of the bicycle like a crutch as he lifts the burlap sack off Sita’s head. “Look.”

  Singh is quiet, and Ram feels that for one brief moment, the world has stopped spinning around him. He peels back more of the sack, shoving what he can down around the feet of the statue.

  Singh’s mouth hangs open slightly, his eyes wide and shining like Sita’s. “Did you make this, Ram?”

  “I helped. My friend is a great artist. And you said great art is costly. I will sell you this for your museum.”

  Now that he has said it out loud, Ram hears how feeble his plan is. He must convince Mr. Singh to buy Sita and put her in a museum. He must get a good enough price to supply Nek with enough money to stay on in the city and send some to his family. Enough money to give him time to find another job if indeed he has been fired like the guard said. And enough money to pay off that bully and his important uncle.

  But this is the only way. This must be the miracle. When he and Nek have more time, they can figure out what to do next, how to keep Nek from having to abandon his garden.

  From having to abandon Ram.

  Singh leans in and studies Sita’s dress. “Bangles?” he whispers. “Electrical wire. And concrete?”

  “His friend uses only rubbish to make beautiful art,” Daya says.

  Singh circles to the other side.

  “You like it,” Ram says.

  Singh puts a hand on the top of his dastar. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  Ram hopes that is good.

  “You have to buy it.”

  “Ram, I—”

  Ram can’t bear to hear what he fears is coming next. “We must have money or everything will be lost! I have to save them!”

  “Them?” Singh asks.

  Daya’s voice is choked with tears. “I think he means the other statues, Papa.”

  “And Nek uncle. And his family.” And me, Ram adds silently.

  Singh speaks slowly, quietly. “Ram, this sculpture is extraordinary. But I can’t buy anything without the permission of the artist. I don’t eve
n have any money to give you now. . . .”

  He goes on and on. But all Ram hears is can’t, won’t, no.

  “Please,” Ram says.

  “Let’s go see your friend. We can talk about it. These things take time, Ram.”

  But there is no time. Peach Fuzz and his uncle are there. Probably making plans about where to direct the bulldozer first.

  Ram has failed.

  “This was a bad idea.” He stumbles around to the handlebar. How is it so much heavier than it was earlier?

  “Ram!” Singh says with alarm. “Wait—you—”

  Ram pushes the bicycle back toward the garden. He should return the statue before he goes back to Nek. How will he tell his friend what is happening? What is about to happen?

  He considers Rama. Rama the hero. Rama always did everything right, even when it was the wrong thing. He left Ayodhya because he was a good son. A son who happily obeyed his father’s wishes. But if he’d stayed, if he’d just said no, then Sita wouldn’t have gotten kidnapped by stupid Ravana.

  Ram knows he is no hero. So if a hero does everything right even when it is wrong, maybe Ram can do something wrong because it is right.

  He looks at Singh.

  He’ll do.

  If the garden is going to be destroyed, Ram will make sure it is remembered.

  “Chalo.” He leans into the handlebars. “I need to show you something, Uncle ji.”

  Chalo,” Ram repeats.

  “Please, Papa,” Daya says. “I know where he’s going.”

  Singh hurries around to stand in front of the bike. “Ram,” he says. “You are sick. Show us tomorrow.”

  Singh is probably right. Ram guesses he has caught whatever it was that Nek came back with. And lying down sounds like a very good idea. Ram is sure he would sleep as soon as he hit the ground.

  But tomorrow is too late. Peach Fuzz and his uncle might have workmen there by morning. Even tonight, they could be kicking over statues, tearing up the ground.

  “No,” Ram says. “Now.”

  Singh rubs the hair at his neck below the band of the dastar. It is growing late. A few of the oil lamps have already been lit in the apartment and shop windows. “How far?” he asks Daya.

  “Not far,” she fibs. “A few minutes.”

  Singh sighs. “At least let me push the bicycle.”

  Ram surrenders it. Daya seizes his hand. Singh murmurs to the doorman, “Come with us, Anik? In case?”

  Ram starts to protest. He’s terrified to show Nek’s garden even to Singh. But what choice does he have now? Maybe one more won’t hurt.

  And then they move again. Ram and Daya lead the way, followed by Singh as he wheels the bicycle bearing the magnificent Sita statue, uncovered now for all to see. Let them see. The more who know what Nek has done before it is gone, the better. The doorman brings up the rear of the column and they round the corner of the building, heading up Ram’s street.

  Rakesh is dropping the canvas awning he uses to cover the samosa stand during the day. “Rakesh uncle,” Daya shouts. “Come with us!”

  “Daya!” Ram’s voice is weak. “No! Too many people!”

  It is too late. Rakesh is already stepping out from under the canvas. He never could refuse Daya.

  “Come where, princess? What’s wrong with Ram?” He is still wearing his apron, the bib stained with oil, pockets jingling with the day’s earnings.

  “Who made that?” Rakesh asks.

  “Ram,” Singh says. “And his friend.”

  They are now a crowd of five, six if you count Sita riding in her palanquin.

  The street sweepers scoop up the last pile of litter into the back of the truck parked by the roadside. One of them calls out to Rakesh. “Hey! No more parades!”

  Ram ignores them. Thankfully, they don’t follow. But when they pass the factory gates, the last of the workers straggle out, and the guard locks up the gate behind them.

  “Isn’t that Nek’s bike?” one of the workers says.

  “That kid went by with it earlier,” the guard answers.

  “What is that in the basket?” another asks.

  “Nothing!” Ram manages. This isn’t what he had in mind. Not at all. He doesn’t want all these people to see. Nek certainly wouldn’t. “It’s nothing. Leave us alone!”

  “Yeah!” Daya says. “Go away!”

  Ram tries to walk faster, but his legs are feeling heavier with every step. And despite his pleas, one of the factory men has joined them, talking quietly with Rakesh.

  They are a proper procession now, trailing down the block, halfway to the corner with the shrine. The dancing school lady watches from her doorway, but thankfully, she doesn’t follow.

  By the time they pass the shrine, two people Ram doesn’t even know have joined the parade. Ram hesitates.

  “This isn’t how it was supposed to go, Daya.”

  She squeezes his hand. “I’m sorry, Ram. Should we go back? Tell me what to do.”

  Ram doesn’t know what to do himself. And they’ve come this far. They’ve seen Sita. He doesn’t see another option.

  “Chalo.”

  They wrap around the corner, step off the sidewalk onto the gravel for the new road.

  At least no one else joins them before they reach the path that cuts into the forest.

  “Here,” Daya says. “This way.”

  The rosewood leaves shush-shush overhead. Acacia pods crunch under their feet. The monkeys have gone silent. They work their way up the path into the clearing.

  “Ram, we need light,” Daya says.

  Ram’s arm feels wobbly when he points at the supply tarp. “In there.”

  Soon a flashlight switches on, and then the torch is lit. As the light grows, Ram wonders what he could have been thinking. They don’t belong here. All of them in this space feels wrong.

  But what choice does he have?

  “Is this what you want us to see, Ram? Where Sita was made?”

  Ram kneels down. He’s brought them this far. He should be the one to show them. But he’s so tired.

  “Show them, Daya.”

  “But Ram—”

  “Please.” Ram looks at her. “You remember the places?”

  She nods. “I remember.”

  “Ram, are you sure this can’t wait until tomorrow?” Singh pleads.

  “Please, Uncle ji.”

  They shuffle off, leaving Ram alone. He lies back, closes his eyes, tries to imagine how he will tell Nek what a mess he has made of things.

  He’s not sure how long the others are gone, but when he hears voices, he opens his eyes to see lights coming back up the path.

  Ram props himself up on one arm.

  Daya rushes to Ram’s side. “I showed them. They seemed to like it. Now what?”

  Ram has no idea.

  The others trickle back. Rakesh and the doorman come, talking in low voices and stealing glances at Ram. Then the other worker and the stranger who joined them because he had nothing better to do. He hears Nek’s name mentioned once or twice but cannot understand what they are saying.

  Then Peach Fuzz appears. He’s been here the whole time? He and his uncle must have explored further. Peach Fuzz looks so unhappy and annoyed that Ram feels a smile creep onto his face.

  But he doesn’t have time to savor the small victory. Singh and the commissioner enter the clearing, speaking quietly. The commissioner shoots Ram odd glances from beneath his hoopoe-bird brows. Ram has no idea what any of it means.

  Maybe it means nothing. Maybe they think he’s as crazy as Ram thought Nek was when he first came. Whatever they are saying, Ram can’t do anything about it now. Everything he could do is done. He leans against Daya and shuts his eyes and lets sleep wash over him at last.

  In the two days it took Hanuman to hasten home and collect the monkey army, Rama and Lakshmana built a mountain of stones on the beach. There was not so much as a loose pebble for miles in any direction.

  When the monkeys finally marched f
rom the jungle onto the clean yellow sand, each warrior, great and small, carried boulders they had collected on their journey.

  They wasted no time.

  The first wave of soldiers marched into the sea, dropped their stones in a great pile, and then waded back to collect more. The second wave of monkeys then marched out, dropped their stones on top of the first bunch, and then they turned back for more. As if by magic, the stone road across the sea grew. Stone by stone, they drew nearer and nearer to Sita. The monkeys, so full of chatter, were silent as they worked, tails and bearded chins held high and proud.

  Finally the mountain of rock on the beach was picked clean, and the road stretched straight and true to the shore of Lanka.

  Now the monkey army fell in behind Hanuman, who stepped behind Rama and Lakshmana. The two brothers readied their weapons, glanced once at each other and then to the great army assembled behind them. Then they sprinted over the stone bridge.

  When they reached the shore, they kept right on running, up the sand and through the jungle. Here the monkeys took to the trees, swinging alongside and ahead of Rama and Lakshmana. They crashed upon the fortress walls like a storm, swarming over and through and around to face the enemy.

  The monkeys fought fiercely—tooth and tail, club and claw—swarming over the legions of rakshasas. Many of Hanuman’s warriors fell.

  Rama and Lakshmana fought side by side. The swath around them widened as they cut through the guards and breached the fortress walls. Their blades sang. Their arrows rained. Rama’s golden discus zipped in and out of the horde, felling hundreds of Ravana’s warriors.

  Abruptly the demons fell back to the heart of the fortress, Ravana’s palace, as if pulled by some silent command.

  The monkeys chittered and screeched, hopping up and down as they celebrated what appeared to be a victory.

  “Wait!” Rama cried.

  From the palace emerged a great and terrible warrior. He carried a double-edged sword as tall as a man. His red eyes rolled about, and the monkeys scurried behind Rama, Lakshmana, and Hanuman.

  But this demon had only two arms—two arms like pythons after swallowing deer, but only two arms, nonetheless.

  It was not Ravana.

  The demon roared out a challenge, dared anyone to come forward to face him.