Happy Birthday!: And Other Stories (5 page)

My mind is focused on where my feet land, so I blurt out a question, ‘So, do all The Agnis live here?'

‘Some yes, some no. The Agnis began here, in this slum. When we started to win, girls from nearby slums joined us and Amitji—best coach—heard of us so we also get free coach.'

That explains the team's recent wins. She then tells me that even in the slums there is a hierarchy of poverty: the higher the floor of the residence, the richer the tenant. One team member, Aarti, lives on the fifth floor of a chawl, the highest floor. Her kholi has a balcony. This also means that her family can afford to pay for an illegal electricity connection.

‘Four hundred rupees a month just to see in the night,' Fatima quips cheekily.

She goes on to add that Rahima, the only Agnis player who can afford Bata sneakers, lives on the fourth floor of the same chawl. ‘Her father is lifting cement there,' Fatima says and points to the building coming up next to mine.

We reach Mary's ten-by-ten-foot kholi on the ground floor, which is divided into three rooms with the help of two curtains. Her sister sits on a small stool in the kitchen area. With a steel spoon, she is stirring a metal pot balanced on a domed clay oven. Her mother, my maid, is lying on a jute charpai with her hand over her head. When she sees us, she jumps out of bed, joy written all over her face. She touches my feet, a sign of respect for elders, which I don't deserve.

‘I cannot believe that you are in my house. I thought Mary was playing a joke on me when she said you might come. I don't know what to offer you,' she says in Marathi.

‘Nothing,' I reply in Marathi. My snobbery disappears on hearing her quavering voice.

Before I can say another word, Mary's sister plants a glass of tea into my hand and one into Sara's.

It's hot and there's no place to put it down.

I look at Mary's mother.

She takes the glass from my hand and rests it in hers.

Then she raises her eyes, weighed down and weary by illness. ‘Now that you're here I hope you can talk some sense into Mary. I have broken my back so my daughters can study in English-medium colleges and marry some nice railway clerk, but all Mary wants to do is play basketball. I don't like it when she plays against you, our mai
^-
baap. And our chawl people talk about how she shows her legs while playing, as if we live in America. The boys are all scared of her. Who will marry her with this reputation?'

Mary interrupts her mother, something I have not seen her do before. ‘Aai, if we win the National match each of us will get a government job. I will have a career, status and a regular salary. You will not have to worry about what people say. All The Agnis need is to win two more games.'

Fatima turns to Sara and me, and says, ‘So much depends on these next two matches. My Aai and Baba also want me to leave basketball and get married. But if we win state and national matches, I get a little money. Then wedding plans cancel!'

‘You girls are dreaming. If we win next game and enter National, where is the money to go to Delhi for National tournament? India Basketball Association is sponsoring only the boys' team,' Rahima chimes in.

‘Money, no money, we have to win the State match, we have to be the best girls' team in Maharashtra,' Fatima says, holding her head high.

Mary speaks again and I'm surprised at the fierceness in her voice. ‘If we enter the Nationals, I will do anything to go to Delhi. Anything.'

I look down at the cracked cement floor of Mary's kholi. These girls' unspoken stories—told by their torn shirts, their thin bodies—gather like screams around me. I feel like I'm shrinking under the weight of their ambition, their rebellion by making basketball—which I treat as a hobby, a joke—a career. It holds me by the scruff of my neck. There is no air in this windowless room.

‘I have to go,' I say, and before anyone can stop me, I leave the kholi.

I hear Sara throw a confused apology to the girls, but she follows me as I quickly find my way back to our waiting car.

‘What is wrong with you?' Sara shouts when I stop, waiting for Lalit to reverse the car.

‘I don't want to talk about it,' I say with finality.

‘You didn't have to be so rude. It isn't their fault that they're poor,' Sara says.

‘It wasn't that,' I reply, suddenly too exhausted to explain myself.

Sara sees this, and says softly, ‘This place, these girls, really make you question what you believe in, don't they?'

I avoid looking at her.

‘We could have at least finished the tea,' she adds.

~

As I am opening the door of the car Sara exclaims, ‘Look. A bird. I think she's injured.'

I look where she's pointing and see a sparrow lying on its side, its eyes open but vacant, as if it has lost all hope.

Sara bends to pick it up. ‘Maybe one of the dogs attacked it.'

‘Don't touch it or the other sparrows will kill it,' I warn.

But Sara is in no mood to listen to me any more. She empties an Aldo shoebox lying in the car and puts the sparrow inside it. The sparrow lies absolutely still as Sara softly coos to it.

When we reach home Sara asks me what to do with the sparrow. ‘Should we call a vet?'

I look inside the shoebox where the sparrow has shat little yellow-grey droppings.

‘Why do you try to rescue everyone and then expect me to bail you out?' I ask her. She doesn't reply so I add, ‘It's the heat. Give the sparrow some water and it'll be fine.'

Sara sets down the box carefully on the couch and goes into the kitchen. She starts boiling water, as she's seen Mary do.

‘It's a bird, Sara, you can give it normal tap water,' I tell her.

‘The bird is not an “it” but a she,' Sara says, and continues boiling the water.

‘By the time the water cools, the sparrow will die of dehydration.'

I fill some tap water in a small steel bowl and take out the dropper from Papa's bottle of eye drops. I make Sara open the sparrow's beak while I drip some water into her mouth. The sparrow blinks hard for a minute and then jumps to her feet.

Sara claps with excitement.

The sparrow looks curiously around the living room, blinking less furiously now. Before we realize it, she spreads her wings and starts flying around the room.

‘Turn off the fan before she is hurt by the blades,' I shout to Sara, who is next to the switchboard.

I open the French windows and watch as the sparrow flutters furiously about, banging against the false ceiling, the embroidered curtains and the chandelier.

‘When there is a way out, why is this bird not seeing it?' I say.

I run over to where the sparrow is and try to catch her.

‘Don't be so rough,' Sara cries, when the sparrow, driven by my aggression, finds the way to an open window and flies out.

I look at Sara; once again she's brought home a problem that I've had to solve.

~

During the next few days I play the cordial host and go through the standard protocol of offering Sara a few crumbs from my life, drinks and dinners with friends, movies. But she's not interested. She has a plan for The Agnis and asks me if I want to join her.

‘I wish I could,' I decline, as if a great force is holding me back.

Yet, when she's gone to visit The Agnis, I imagine what she's doing with them and picture myself next to her. Something goes missing from the things I'm used to enjoying; they leave me dissatisfied, empty, as though I've left something behind.

I go for my weekly potli massage. During the massage, I stare at my masseuse, whose presence I've never acknowledged before. I feel the urge to know more about her: why she's here, where she's from and who she's doing all this work for. She shifts uncomfortably. I ask her name and she murmurs, ‘You seem tense today.'

I come out of the parlour feeling knotted, dirty.

The next day, when Mary comes home (quieter after I stormed out of her house), I realize that although I see her every day—even more than I see my own father, who's usually travelling or with his other family—I know almost nothing about her. I've treated her as though she's invisible. I lock myself inside my room and clean my cupboard, for the very first time.

~

The day comes for Sara to leave and I know that with her departure the train of my guilt will leave the station. Early that morning I hear the bell ring. Thinking it is Mary coming for duty, I open the door without looking through the peephole. The entire team of Agnis, twelve girls, are standing outside my front door. Fatima is holding a cake on which is written in clumsy white icing: ‘We Will Miss You.'

Their mouths drop on seeing me; they were expecting Sara to open the door.

‘How did the watchman let you all in?' I ask.

‘I told him to,' Sara says, coming up behind me. The girls' faces bloom like flowers. Sara invites them in but they refuse, throwing cautious glances at me.

‘How did you find an oven?' I ask pointlessly, seeing that the cake is lumpy and unpretentious, the kind that has bits of forgotten eggshells in it, the kind that Sara will like.

The girls look at each other and Fatima mumbles, ‘We request my memsahib for permission to use her oven.'

I know the memsahib whose house Fatima works in, the eighteenth floor Mrs Mehra who has made a nuisance of herself by adopting stray dogs, many of which have bitten young children in the building. The girls chose wisely.

‘You bake?' I ask, knowing such a concept is alien to them.

‘We learnt because Sara Didi say she likes cake,' Mary says, her eyes lingering on Sara. I notice she calls Sara an elder sister now instead of memsahib.

‘Well then, enjoy yourselves,' I say, and hear my voice dripping with a kind of excessive sweetness that masks nothing.

I go into my room, ignoring their flat-toned requests for me to stay. I stare out of my window, standing against its humid breath, as their voices gather around me. I hear them thank Sara for her help and this seems to go on for an eternity. There's a bit of clapping as I imagine the cake being cut. Some of them declare they have an Internet café in their slum from which they'll regularly email Sara. Sara says she'll visit them again, maybe next year. They exchange emotional goodbyes and promises to keep in touch. The door shuts and there is silence. I sit on my bed, exhausted.

There's a knock on my door and Sara enters, carrying a slice of cake on a ceramic plate.

‘I got you a piece,' she says. ‘Try it, it's delicious.'

‘No thanks, I'm watching my weight,' I reply, turning the pages of
Vogue
, pretending to read it.

She sets the plate down on my dresser and from the corner of my eye I see her back reflected in the mirror, taut and bony. For a minute neither of us says anything.

‘Payal,' she says in a small voice. ‘I know there are many things you don't want to talk about but I can't leave without saying something important.' She clears her throat and adds, ‘I want to make it clear that I didn't come to India for The Agnis or my coursework. I came for you, hoping we could get to know each other better.'

If I acknowledge the emotions in Sara's words it will give our forced relationship as step-sisters validity.

I don't look up from the page advertising Cartier's latest engagement rings.

Sara stares at me for a long time, searching. Finally, she sighs and says, ‘There's something else I want to tell you. I've been blogging about The Agnis, putting up photos of them, their homes, their practice ground. The blog is getting an amazing response, sometimes a hundred hits a day. My professors want me to write my thesis on this.'

‘Good for your credits but how does that help these girls?'

‘Well,' she says and pauses. She steps away from the dresser and sits down on my bed. ‘Last week I bought each girl a pair of sneakers. Nice Nike ones, like yours. It was the day before their big match and they won.'

There is no reason for me to pretend to study
Vogue
, so I look at Sara and ask, ‘I know they won but how did you get the money to buy the sneakers?'

‘A professor from my university arranged a sponsor,' she says, with a self-satisfied grin.

‘That's very … ummm … kind, I guess, of you. But what exactly do you have planned now that they've reached the National level, thanks or no thanks to your shoes? The match is in three days. How will they get to Delhi?'

Sara runs her hand through her blonde hair, which has become a shade lighter in the sun and says, ‘I don't know.'

‘See, Sara. This is what I keep telling you not to do. Try to relate to things that you shouldn't and leave the job half-done. By helping these slum girls you've sold them false hope and now you can't follow through.'

Sara doesn't honour me with hurt. She looks me straight in the eye and says, ‘Payal, I may not be able to come back to India for years. But you're here. You can help them.'

I snort dramatically and say, ‘Sara, you're asking me to finish the job you started?' She doesn't bother with a denial so I continue, ‘Why don't you understand that things are not so easily done in India? Even if I want to help them, I can't. My coach will find out; the women's basketball world is very small here. I'll get expelled from my team. Plus, believe it or not, the girls are too proud to take my help or money.'

‘Is there no other way?'

‘Can you think of another way?' I press.

Her stumped expression tells me she can't. She admits defeat when she says, ‘I have to leave for the airport in thirty minutes.'

I don't have the capacity for any more of Sara's hints, so I say, ‘I can't come to the airport to drop you, but why don't you finish packing and I'll see you outside in a bit.'

When I open my bedroom door to let Sara out, I hear Mary washing dishes in the kitchen. She should be practising for the big game, I think, before a little voice quips: what would be the point of that? I shut the door behind me.