Outside In Page 8

  “I looked for Daya today.” He ignored her for so long that somehow not finding her seemed like another punishment he deserved.

  “Her mother and grandmother took her to see some cousins in Ludhiana for a few days. They won’t see each other at Diwali, so they exchange gifts now.”

  “Oh.”

  The parade creeps closer. “She’s been missing you.”

  Ram shrugs. “I thought you didn’t like her hanging around with me anyway.”

  Singh hesitates. “I don’t like her gambling with you. Or for you. But she likes you. She doesn’t have many friends at school.”

  Ram shrugs. “I was busy.”

  The parade fills the street. Behind the musicians, a group of young men pull another of the giant papier-mâché statues. This one has a dark brow and pointed teeth. Like last night, they’ll carry it to the bonfire at the middle of the sector and burn it up. How the demon fits in with the story of Rama and Lakshmana and Sita, Ram isn’t sure. Maybe it’s the one they faced first in the jungle with the holy man? And he realizes with a pang that he may never have a chance to ask Nek.

  “Busy,” Singh repeats, interrupting his thoughts. “With the man with the bicycle?”

  Ram remembers that Singh saw them together.

  “Who is he, Ram?”

  Ram fiddles with the broken watch buttons as he considers the question. Who is Nek? A factory worker. An artist. For a little while, Ram’s friend. He wouldn’t even be that if he hadn’t taken Ram’s money in the first place—

  Money.

  A flame of anger flickers in Ram’s chest. Nek hasn’t even paid him back, not fully. And now Ram won’t even be able to earn it back. It isn’t fair. If only he’d beaten Nek that afternoon. Then he wouldn’t be in this whole mess. He could have taken one of the statues and gotten something for it like he planned and saved himself a pile of trouble.

  Then again, what’s stopping him now?

  “Do you still need art for your museum, Uncle ji?”

  Singh is thrown by the change of subject. “The museum? We haven’t even built it yet. Someday they will, but right now it’s all committees trying to figure out what kind to put in—”

  “But you’ll have to buy the art, right?”

  “Well, I suppose.”

  It would be simple, so simple, to just take one of Nek’s statues. And the best part is Nek won’t even be able to say anything about it, since he’s not supposed to be using the land or making all those statues in the first place.

  Ram is careful to sound disinterested. “Is art expensive?”

  “Sometimes. Some of the people on the museum committee want to fill the completed building with European paintings, to show how modern we are. Those paintings cost many, many lakh.”

  Lakh! A fraction of that would be enough for a bicycle, even a tuk-tuk. Enough to go searching for the girl.

  “How do you know how much art is worth?”

  “That’s hard to say. Expense and worth are rarely the same thing.”

  “What does that mean?”

  Singh gestures to Ram’s neck. “Your bead. Someone made that. Someone with skill. And beyond that, it matters to you because of how you came to it. It is art of a kind. If someone offered you what it was worth, say a few paisa, would you take it?”

  “No.”

  Singh nods. “Because its value to you is greater than what someone says it is worth to them. And India is full of that kind of craftsmanship. Fancy paintings are fine, but they’re only one kind of art. And there is plenty to be found right here in the Punjab that is just as wonderful.” He pauses, points at the effigies heading toward the bonfire. “Even those. See how the life seeps up through them. The care and the artistry. That’s the art of this place. Not some painting from a hundred years ago of a French countryside.”

  Ram shrugs. “But they’re just going to burn it up.”

  “True. But it doesn’t mean it isn’t art. It doesn’t mean it doesn’t matter. Remember how I told you I liked to draw when I was a boy?”

  Ram nods.

  “I made effigies, too. With my friends. I spent weeks working on them. And then at Dussehra my friends and I would fill them with firecrackers and blow them up. And after we’d blown them up, we’d ride over the pieces on our bicycles.” Singh’s eyes shine at the memory.

  “Seems like a lot of trouble just to celebrate a stupid love story.”

  Singh looks at him sharply. “Love story?”

  Ram finally meets his eye. “Rama and Sita. Getting married. I know about it.”

  “You think all this . . .” Singh waves toward the parade passing by, trails off. “Tell me what you know about the story, Ram.”

  Ram tells him what Nek has told him. About King Dasaratha. The births of the brothers. How close Rama and Lakshmana were. The holy man. Slaying the demon. Bending the bow. Winning Sita’s hand.

  “Happily ever after, I guess,” Ram finishes. How dull it all sounds now. A magical birth, an obstacle to happiness easily overcome. Really, why did Ram even care what happened next?

  “You’re only coming to the good part,” Singh says, his face more relaxed than Ram has ever seen it. “The most important part.”

  After Rama and Sita’s wedding, the holy man decided it was time to go back to Ayodhya.

  Their reception at the palace put the wedding to shame. They feasted for days, the entire kingdom celebrating the return of the two princes, and Rama so well married. When the festivities at last began to quiet, the king made a decision.

  Dasaratha decided to pass his kingdom on to one of his sons when he still had strength left to advise and guide the new king.

  It was obvious to all that Rama was the perfect heir. And now with Sita at his side and his adventures behind him, he was ready to rule.

  But Kaikeyi—Dasaratha’s youngest wife—feared what might happen if Rama were named king. As the youngest of the wives, she’d always been jealous of the love Dasaratha showed to Kausalya, and of the way everyone preferred Rama to her own son, Bharata. Kaikeyi’s heart was small and cold, and she could only imagine that Rama would toss her and her son out of the palace if he came to power. So she prevailed upon the king to deliver on a pledge he had made to her many years ago.

  “Do you recall, King Dasaratha,” she said one evening, “that you promised me two wishes?”

  The king nodded. “Of course. One when you saved my life in battle, and the other when you agreed to become my wife.”

  “And you recall that I have not asked you for those wishes, in all these many years we have been wed?”

  “Yes.”

  “I ask for them now.” She drew herself up, her face grim.

  Now King Dasaratha grew worried. The timing of her request . . . just as he prepared to name his heir . . .

  “Kaikeyi—”

  “I wish for Bharata to be king instead of Rama!”

  The king hid his face in his hands and wept. “Please, Kaikeyi—”

  “Besides, Bharata will make a fine king.” She did not go so far as to say he would make a better king than Rama. Not even she believed that.

  Honor and duty bound, Dasaratha had to comply. He took solace in the fact that Rama, as noble and generous as he was, would not mind being passed over. He would, after all, still be in Ayodhya, on hand to advise his brother.

  “Very well,” the king replied. “Bharata will be the king.”

  But Kaikeyi knew that if Rama remained in the kingdom, even her own son would defer to him, knew that others would insist he be made king. Her fear made her second wish even more devastating than her first. “You will also banish Rama from the kingdom for a span of fourteen years.”

  “Kaikeyi! No!”

  But the young queen was unmoved by her husband’s pleas, unmoved by his heartbreak.

  “A promise is a promise,” she said. “And any man—especially a king—is nothing without his word.”

  So it was that the very next morning, Dasaratha announced that Bhar
ata would be named king and that Rama would be banished for fourteen years.

  All of Ayodhya mourned, even Bharata, who had no desire to be king, especially under these circumstances. The other queens wept openly. Even the holy man was confused and worried. He had not foreseen this.

  Rama alone was at peace with the odd twist of fate. Perhaps he had grown to enjoy adventure and traveling and the wilds of the jungle. Or perhaps he was as happy to obey his father’s will as anyone could ever be. Even Bharata could not convince him to stay.

  “No, brother, it is my duty and my pleasure to fulfill my father’s obligation. I will live in the jungle for fourteen years.”

  But he would not go alone.

  “I will go with you, husband,” Sita said.

  “As will I,” said Lakshmana.

  Rama was overwhelmed by their kindness, but he could not ask them to join his exile. “No, you both must stay. A hard life in the jungle is no substitute for life in the palace. This is your home.”

  “My home is with you, Rama,” Sita replied.

  “And I will not stay behind growing fat and comfortable while there are dangers to face and adventures to be had.” Lakshmana was fierce enough that not even Rama himself would argue with him.

  So Rama agreed.

  The entire kingdom gathered at the river to see them off. Bharata reluctantly let them go, but not before making an important gesture. “Give me your sandals, Rama,” he ordered. “They will sit on the throne—not me—as a symbol of your rightful place as king. I rule only in your stead for these fourteen years.”

  Rama embraced Bharata. As Rama, Sita, and Lakshmana climbed into the boat to cross the river, the holy man made as if to follow. Rama saw the man was weary, and fourteen years in the wilderness would not treat the sage well. He placed a hand on his teacher’s shoulder. “Please,” he said. “Stay behind. Advise my brother Bharata. Teach him as you have taught me and Lakshmana.”

  The holy man, humbled and surprised by Rama’s character and generosity, agreed to do what he could.

  And so it was that Rama, Sita, and Lakshmana left the kingdom, striking out once again into the wilds and dangers of the great jungle.

  By the time Singh finishes the telling, the parade has passed. “So Rama left? Just like that?”

  “Yes,” Singh says.

  “Sita had to go with him since she was his wife, right?” Ram asks.

  “Well, I suppose that—”

  “But Lakshmana gave up an easy life in a great palace,” Ram says.

  “It is hard to believe. But that’s what true friends do. Life in exile is nothing when you have at least one true friend at your side.”

  Ram considers the word. Exile. Once again, he thinks he knows how Rama must have felt—pushed out of a place he loved. Only it wasn’t Rama’s fault. It was Kaikeyi’s for being jealous, and Dasaratha’s for making stupid promises.

  Ram, however, has only himself to blame for his own exile. But if he is responsible, then maybe he is the one who can make it right, too.

  He rises to his feet.

  “Shukriya, Uncle ji,” he says.

  “Don’t you want to hear what happens next?”

  Ram does. Dearly. But what he has to do should not wait.

  “I have to go and talk to someone.”

  Singh’s voice flattens out again. “Your friend?”

  “Yes.” Nek is his friend. Or was. Or maybe can be again.

  “Just be wise, Ram,” Singh says, then adds carefully, “People are not always what they seem. Sometimes grown people pretend to be good to children. . . .”

  “I’m all right, Uncle ji.”

  “It’s just . . .” Singh struggles for the words. “The girl. The one who gave you your bead? She trusted the man who took her away, didn’t she?”

  Ram doesn’t see what this has to do with him or Nek.

  “I can take care of myself, Uncle ji.”

  Singh sighs. “Sometimes I wish you didn’t have to.”

  Ram isn’t sure what that means.

  “Did you ever think of having a home?”

  Ram makes a face. “I’m not going back to that orphanage.”

  “I know. But . . . what if my wife agreed to let you share the houseboy’s room? We could find some jobs for you. We could see that you go to school—”

  Ram shakes his head and backs away.

  “No, thank you, Uncle ji,” he says quickly. But his heart swells with the kindness of the offer. A place to live and food and living near—if not with—Singh and Daya would be nice. School might not even be so awful.

  But not working in a house.

  Pehn went to a big house to work.

  Singh smiles sadly. “Yes. I thought so. But if you change your mind . . .”

  “Good-bye, Uncle ji.” Ram starts toward the garden.

  The street is a mess again. But in among all the trash something glints brightly. Ram dashes over. A saffron-colored dupatta, covered in perfectly round mirrors. He scoops the scarf up. Maybe it will be useful. If only Nek will forgive him.

  When Ram at last reaches the clearing, Nek is working on a new statue. A bear, he realizes at once. Sita sits nearby, frozen the way she was when Ram worked last.

  Nek glances up, but he doesn’t send Ram away.

  Ram takes a few steps closer, holds out the dupatta. “I found this.”

  Nek surveys the mirrors. “Found or stole?”

  “Found. In the road after a parade.”

  Nek adds more cement. “We don’t steal to make things. Only what we find. What no one else wants.”

  Ram is too pleased to speak. Nek said we.

  “I know.”

  Nek glances at the scarf. His hands are dabbed with wet cement. “Put it with the bangles. You can continue cutting them when we get back.”

  “Back from where?” Ram tosses the scarf onto the bangle box. Has Nek forgiven him this easily? It almost makes him more nervous, the uncertainty.

  “Back from fixing Shiva.” He stands, picks up a bucket. “Bring a torch.”

  They take the same path back up through the forest. Nek pauses at a tree covered in mottled red-and-gray bark. He heaves a stone up through the spread of waxy green leaves and rouses a chorus of chattering, growling langurs. A second later three or four yellow gooseberries zip toward them as the monkeys jump from the branches. Nek gathers up the little yellow fruit and offers them to Ram.

  “You can eat these?”

  “Yes.”

  Ram takes a bite. The bitter, biting juice explodes in his mouth.

  Nek’s grin comes and goes like a wink. “Of course they are better after you stew them in salt and chili powder.”

  Ram spits out the sour, stringy mess and chucks the rest of the berries into the forest as they walk on.

  From the bottom of the ravine, Nek points to the rim. “This will be a waterfall. That is why Shiva is up there. All alone.”

  Waterfall? All Ram sees are trees and shadow, rivulets of bare dirt where the rain has washed into the gully.

  “Someday I will make this whole hillside into a great cascade. I’ve already drawn up the plans for the cisterns and the pumps and the piping.”

  “You know how to do that?” Ram asks. “Dig wells and build pumps?”

  Nek climbs up, the bucket dangling from one arm. “I grew up on a farm, remember? I dug wells with the men in the village. We piped water to the fields. It is not so hard. But I haven’t found all the pieces yet.”

  For a moment, Ram can see it as Nek does—a wall of water coursing down this hillside. It will be beautiful. Then he follows him up the roots.

  “But why does Shiva need a waterfall?”

  “Waterfalls are the hair of the Lord Shiva. Shiva is the destroyer, pushing all things toward destruction so that they can be reborn. The way water cleans and transforms what it touches.”

  At the top, the broken statue has been righted, the head sitting beside it. “So Shiva knows a thing or two about destroying. You
have that in common at least.” Ram winces at the jab. “But I suspect you are also a rebuilder. Like him.”

  “I really didn’t mean to, Uncle ji.”

  “I know,” Nek says. “And Shiva doesn’t mind. He did worse.” Nek hands the bucket of mortar to Ram and picks up the head.

  “Is he in the Ramayana too?” Ram asks.

  “In a way. But not this part. Oye, Ram,” he sighs, “I need a thousand statues to tell you all the stories you must know.”

  “Tell me this one.”

  “Shiva had a wife named Parvati. While he was off dancing on top of the globe, destroying and rebuilding, Parvati grew lonely. One day, she’d had enough of loneliness. So she took some turmeric paste and mud and mixed it together, sculpting a beautiful baby boy out of the clay. Using her own magic (she was a goddess after all), she breathed life into the baby. She called him Ganesha.”

  Nek pauses, jerks his chin at the headless statue. “Work and listen.”

  Ram smears wet concrete on top of the broken neck.

  “Years later, Lord Shiva returned. At the moment he happened upon the house, Parvati was bathing, and little Ganesha was standing guard outside the door. Shiva, of course, had no idea who the boy was, and was annoyed when Ganesha would not let him inside the house. And so Shiva the destroyer lost his temper. In haste, he drew his sword and sliced off the head of the insolent little boy in one clean blow.”

  Ram’s hands go still. Cut off his boy’s head? The concrete plops from his fingers before he remembers what he’s doing and resumes buttering the edges. “That’s awful!”

  “Shiva regretted his action at once. But was he not also the rebuilder? He dashed into the forest and found a young elephant that had lost his mother. Shiva removed the elephant calf’s head and hurried back.”

  “He did what?”

  “Don’t interrupt,” Nek says. “Then he did as we are doing—only with magic instead of concrete. He restored both boy and elephant in one body.”

  At this, Nek reaches up with the head, nestles it into place. “Run your finger around the edge and smooth it out.”