Bindi Read online

  He waited until his fifth day at the orphanage, after completing the last of his daily chores, to find Rani and ask for her help. Dipika was changing diapers as always, but Rani wasn’t there. The nursery was strangely hushed compared to its usual chaos. Pasha and Sanish were there, watching Sunita quietly sob, slunk down against the wall. Pasha was being uncharacteristically quiet and well behaved, which, he thought, given the somber mood, meant she’d done something to poor Vidip that had upset Sunita. Perhaps Rani was already with him. Birendra checked the kitchen first. Then he passed by the bathroom and their bedroom, in case she had brought Vidip there to calm him, but both were empty. He checked the guest bathroom, not thinking he’d find Rani but wondering if little Vidip might have run off on his own. Still no one. And the courtyard, where they were occasionally allowed to play, was empty as well. In the hall again, he finally saw Rani. She was carrying a plastic bag and had just come in from outside. Had she gone to the market in the middle of the afternoon? He rushed to her.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  “I can’t find Vidip,” he said, forgetting momentarily that he’d wanted to talk to Rani about approaching Mr. Channar.

  “Well, that’s because he’s been adopted, Birendra. He has a new home. I’ve just brought out his things and said good-bye.” She lifted the bag she was holding. “He’s left these behind for the others.”

  Birendra couldn’t think what to say. Vidip was there, then gone, just like that. A new home. And yet Birendra remained at the orphanage, still waiting.

  “How about I fetch you next time one of your friends is leaving?” Rani said. “Would that be good?”

  He nodded, realizing they were no longer alone. He hadn’t heard the office door open down the hall, and now Mr. Channar was standing beside them.

  “They seemed very happy, didn’t they, Rani?” said Mr. Channar. She said they did and told Mr. Channar that Vidip had donated his things. “Good, good. And you?” He was looking at Birendra now. “You’re looking a bit glum. Everything okay?”

  It was the first time Mr. Channar had actually spoken to Birendra. He was so nervous that he didn’t know where to start. Did he ask about his aunt and uncle? Or get the matter of school settled first? He had to say something. Mr. Channar was waiting for a response. Without meaning to, he spoke in English.

  “Yes, sir. Everything is okay.”

  “Ah, you can speak a little English, can you?”

  He nodded, then forced himself to speak again. This was the chance he’d been waiting for.

  “I can speak English. And Hindi. Like you, Mr. Channar.”

  “Well, well. Very impressive. I didn’t know you were such a smart boy.” Birendra was too nervous to smile at the compliment. “Perhaps you can help me with our guests. Making the tea. Even greeting them when they arrive. How would you like that?”

  “Yes, sir. Very much.”

  He wanted to continue the sentence, to say, very much, but what I really want is to return to school. Mr. Channar, he suddenly felt certain, would approve of this. But Birendra hadn’t been quick enough, and Mr. Channar’s attention was lost. He was speaking to Rani again, telling her to show Birendra how to make the tea and to let him know if she thought Birendra might be up to the task.

  “I’m sure he would,” she said.

  “Good. Well, we’ll see about all that tomorrow when I get in. I have a meeting in town, so that won’t be until after eleven. The answering machine is on already.” He turned to Birendra, switching again to English. “Keep up the good work, young man. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  VIII

  Nayana awoke to the still hush of their flat, to the endless chatter of her mind. The voices all reminding her in one way or another that she must admit to Ramesh she was pregnant. She could tell by the light that it was quite late, that she’d slept in again. She threw off the duvet and turned to the outline of Ramesh’s body, still imprinted on the pale sheet beside her. She ran her fingers over his absence, then placed her whole body there. The cotton on his side was cool against her skin. Then she stretched her body long and felt warmth in the spot where a slant of rare late autumn sunlight had reached from across the room to the foot of their mattress. Ramesh would be home late again tonight. The test run for the channel tunnel was now just days away, and he was working more than ever. It felt as though they’d come back together only so she could be left alone with her unruly imagination to torment her, visions of another man’s child exacerbating the general queasiness she felt. With another stretch, she forced herself to sit up and scoot to the edge of the mattress, touching both feet down on the wood flooring. She felt warm in the sunlight and closed her eyes, trying it on as a reason to get out of bed, to prepare for another endless day. Perhaps she would go out, take a walk if the weather didn’t turn. Next to her sister, the thing Nayana missed most in London was the sun. And this reminded her that she had a task today. She would leave the house after all. She had to send Aditi and Birendra their Christmas gifts.

  She stood to retrieve her robe where it hung alongside the standing mirror. She caught sight of the swollen skin that she knew indicated greater changes to come. She tried to push aside fears of loss and doubts of paternity to start the day differently. She wrapped herself in the robe and tied it closed, snug at her waist, a kind of safety belt for life. In the kitchen, Ramesh had left a note. He would make up for the endless hours at the office with dinner at her favorite restaurant the following week. They would celebrate properly. The idea of Ramesh having anything to make up was, of course, absurd. Much like the idea that Nayana could ever make up what she’d done to him. But it was also possible that her news would be a start. If she could wait that long, she would tell him over dinner. If not, they’d be celebrating twice over. The thought made her tired. She could easily crawl back into bed and wait for next week to come. But if she didn’t get these gifts off to her sister and nephew, they weren’t going to arrive in time for Christmas. If only she could bring them herself. That way she wouldn’t have to decide whether to mention the pregnancy in her note. She didn’t want to disappoint her sister if anything happened. Telling people she was pregnant felt like making a promise she wasn’t sure she could keep.

  And the last time she’d been pregnant and lost it was just before Srikant’s funeral. Nayana couldn’t bear to add to her sister’s grief and so said nothing before she left for India. She had assumed with one look that her sister would know, just as she would surely understand that Nayana hadn’t been able to announce her own loss in the face of Aditi’s, which was undoubtedly greater. Aditi had looked awful, so tired, when Nayana arrived from the airport, already almost a week into her mourning. She looked like a widow and thus no longer like Nayana’s twin. And yet she was still the one to scold Nayana, telling her, “You shouldn’t have come in your condition.” In her voice, Nayana heard none of Aditi’s usual warmth and brightness. It was lacking, for the first time, in their bond. Nayana had never before felt anything but transparent in Aditi’s presence, and this new sensation was terrifying and lonely. Nayana had counted on her sister’s knowing with a mere glance and on being able to grieve both losses together, as they’d done when their parents died, but she kept silent when Aditi said nothing. Nayana had never thought it would be possible to keep something from Aditi until that day, and it would start a terrible trend. She could only hope she would be discovered during her stay. When she wasn’t, she tried to blame grief, but she quietly feared it was something more—perhaps the distance and the years apart had, for Aditi, finally begun to wear away the connection that for Nayana had long since been more tenuous, always dependent on Aditi’s strength of conviction.

  She seized the card from the sack of gifts and took it with her to her study, recognizing as she held it again the cowardly act of buying a card so small, one that would allow for only the briefest note. Dearest Aditi, she wrote, standing behind the chair. She wrote as if hurried, as if she didn’t have only that one task to achieve today.
Such small gifts for you and Birendra in the face of my immense regret for falling behind in our correspondence. What you must think of me! She could have spent all morning, what was left of it, imagining what Aditi might think of her if she had only been in possession of the facts of Nayana’s life, a life in total disarray. I’ll find a way to visit soon. For what it’s still worth, dear sister, I promise. Please give my love to dear Birendra, and know I love you, as always. —N

  She remembered Birendra on the last day of that visit. They’d taken Nayana to the airport and were saying good-bye. He was so small, so young. It broke her heart that he would grow up without a father. She squeezed him until he squirmed, then she took his face in her hands. “You be good, sweet Birendra,” she’d said. “And take care of your mother for me.” She could see elements of her own face in his, and this forced her grief to leap to her throat. Grief at leaving India once again for a life in London that was growing more precarious by the day, grief at leaving behind her sister, widowed and more alone than ever, and grief for her own loss, which Aditi still hadn’t acknowledged and Nayana still hadn’t shared. For this, too, Nayana grieved. She didn’t want to get on the plane. As they embraced, Aditi seemed to know Nayana’s thoughts once again. Aditi, the stronger, calmer presence of the two, even in the anguish of mourning her husband. “Go back to your London. Become a famous scholar and buy us a mansion in Delhi where we can all live together one day.”

  Famous scholar. It was true that Nayana had once hoped to be a great voice in the literary arts, one whose opinions were important, revered. But the renown she’d coveted since arriving in London was just a substitute for the love she’d left behind in India. Then she’d met Ramesh, and his adoration was so abundant and so quickly became love; she never had the chance to reject it. And finally she hadn’t wanted to. But she’d returned to London after Srikant’s funeral out of step, losing hope finally that the dissertation would ever become the book she’d hoped for. It was still packed away in a box in the office closet. Gradually Nayana lost the aspiration to be great at all. She couldn’t even use Ramesh as the excuse in her letters home: more often than not, she simply ignored her sister’s praise and queries about Nayana’s progress. The truth was that Ramesh never would have stopped her. But he’d never had to. Nayana had remained great in one regard, that of preventing her own success. By the time she visited her sister and nephew again, she wasn’t even thinking about the book or her former dreams, and she’d all but stopped dreaming of children of her own. Aditi did her the kindness of not bringing up either subject, asking instead about the classes she taught, as though teaching, not writing, had always been Nayana’s dream.

  She sealed the card in its envelope and wrapped Birendra’s books and the blouse and earrings she’d chosen for Aditi, hoping, as always, that her sister found occasion to wear them. And, as always, this hope made her feel sad for her sister, which gave Nayana occasion to feel sorry for herself as well. For they were both living away from home, with ghosts, and without each other.

  IX

  Mrs. Nair came as promised, visiting on Birendra’s eighth day at the orphanage. She brought no letter with her from West London, and she came alone, carrying with her a basket lunch. Rani said they might like to sit in the courtyard at the back of the building. Mrs. Nair dished out the fish curry Birendra loved, then a pile of rice. It was the dish he always requested that she bring to him and his mother whenever she offered, and he had thought of it often during his recent stay with the Nairs, regretting that they could not eat it during his period of mourning.

  “You’re being a good boy and helping Mr. Channar, I’m sure,” she said. She didn’t look at him when she added, quietly, “Just until your auntie and uncle come.”

  Birendra only had one question: When? But he didn’t ask because he was growing scared of the answer. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe not at all. The way Mrs. Nair had spoken just now, the way Mr. Channar said nothing at all, it seemed Birendra was not the only one losing hope. As it was, nearly enough time had passed for their letter to arrive. But this no longer held the promise it once had. He still hoped, if the letter came first, it would detail their impending arrival, but since that arrival had been possible for some time now, as Mrs. Nair had pointed out, he feared their letter would tell him something else.

  He’d not yet worked up the nerve to ask Mr. Channar about school, but now that he was with Mrs. Nair, he hoped she might help him with that. He would have asked right then, but her food was more delicious than ever, and he couldn’t stop eating. She was pleased to see him enjoying it so much and placed another piece of fish on his plate. She spoke of news from Varkala, but she appeared less interested in gossip than she had once been and soon fell silent as well. When he could stand to eat no more, he told her the food was wonderful and that he was really okay with Mr. Channar, who was nice to him, as were the women who worked there. And he explained that Mr. Channar had been impressed with his languages and asked Birendra to help with the guests who came to the orphanage. At first to pour tea but soon thereafter to greet the guests at the door and show them to Mr. Channar’s office. And finally to lead them to Rani after their meeting with Mr. Channar so they could meet the child they were adopting.

  “You do all that?” said Mrs. Nair, unable to hide her surprise.

  He told her he did that and more, then detailed for her his daily chores. The days were sometimes long but always full. He did not volunteer that he preferred the little green room he shared with the older children at the orphanage to the Nairs’ house, right next door to his real home, so empty now. Or that, at least in the beginning, he’d felt excited to be closer to where he was going, closer to West London, though lately he just felt far away. He thought he could ask now about school, but she had pulled something out of her bag and was removing the fabric with which it had been wrapped. There were two framed photographs from his house. She seemed not to want to let them go. Then she polished the glass of the first picture frame and handed it to him.

  “Your beautiful mother,” she said. “This must have been her graduation picture.”

  Birendra studied the photograph, trying first to remember where it had lived in the old house. It hadn’t been in his mother’s room. He thought it might have lived in the kitchen, high on the spice shelf, but maybe not. He wasn’t even sure if it was a photograph of his mother or his aunt. The longer he stared at it the less sure he felt. If it was his mother, she was very young, and this made her look different. He brought it closer, holding it a few inches away from his face in both hands. Something opened up a little, lightening his mood, making it easier to breathe. It must be his mother, he thought, because of the way he felt, both happy and sad to see her again.

  “And here is your father looking so impressive in his costume.”

  He studied his father’s image now, holding the pictures side by side. He was so relieved to have them, for he would no longer have to rely entirely on his memory, and he would no longer feel entirely alone when he went to sleep. They would watch over him. And suddenly he wished he was going back to Varkala with Mrs. Nair. There were other things he’d left behind. He would have asked her to bring the library books if he could have, and his figure of Ganesh. Just then Mrs. Nair reached in her bag and pulled out an animal his mother had sewn. It was a monkey he’d never seen, but he would have recognized his mother’s work anywhere. He seized it from Mrs. Nair and pulled it close. It was as if he could feel his mother’s touch still lingering. He brought the monkey to his nose and tried to find the scent of home, of her. When he opened his eyes, she was holding his Ganesh. She’d brought it as well. He gushed with gratitude, thanking her three times in English before he finally said Nandi.

  Mrs. Nair stroked his face, content to see him so happy. She asked him if he ate well at the orphanage. If he had time to play. If there were children his age. He told her that, when he was done with chores, he would eat with the other children and tell them stories or help Rani and Dipika with the babi
es. He didn’t tell her that the babies came and went while he and the other, slightly older children remained since Vidip left, waiting and wondering why. He embellished the joyfulness of his time there, because he thought it was what Mrs. Nair needed to hear. The one thing he did still wish for, he said at last, was to return to school.

  “You want to go back to school?”

  “So much,” he said. At last someone heard him say the words.

  “And have you asked Mr. Channar? Maybe he would let you. It’s not so far, and it is paid for, is it not?”

  “Yes! And it’s so close. Much closer than to Varkala.” What he wouldn’t give to walk back into Mr. Mon’s classroom. To go into the lending library. To flip through the big reference books, the dictionary, with so many words. The encyclopedia, with so much knowledge. “I haven’t asked him yet. Do you really think he would let me?”

  She seemed to be considering the possibility, or maybe what she might do to help him. He could hardly keep still in his seat. And then a little yellow bird swooped down and stole a grain of rice. It scared them both, and this made them laugh. Then the door opened and Mr. Channar stepped into the courtyard, lighting a cigarette. He seemed surprised not to be alone and set his cigarette down at once to approach Mrs. Nair.

  “Oh, Auntie,” he said. “You are so kind to visit. I’m sorry I was out so long. How are you?”

  “I’m fine, just busy getting old.”

  He laughed at Mrs. Nair’s joke. She reached her hand out to Birendra now and said she would find him after she’d had a chat with Mr. Channar. The adults wanted to talk about him, and he hoped this would mean he could return to school. He placed a patchwork animal in each pocket and retrieved the two pictures she’d brought him, wrapping them in the fabric, then he left the adults alone. In his room, he placed the photographs on top of the crate and wedged his new monkey in between them. He removed his Ganesh now from his other pocket and, in both hands, held it close to his heart as he lay down. With his eyes closed, he tried to recall the wall at the end of the hallway of his house in Varkala and the small statues and prints of gods that lined it, the candles and the fruit they used to offer. He saw his mother lighting the candles on that last day of Diwali, the last time they’d prayed together. He felt the candles’ warmth. And his mother’s presence beside him, glowing in their light. He tried to pray as he and his mother had then, though now he prayed to Ganesh and to both his parents, asking that they all watch over him just a little longer and save him from a terrible fate, the life of an orphan. He promised he would be good. And kind, and to always do his best.