Can You Hear the Nightbird Call? (20 page)

“Yes,” Nimmo blurted out. “I didn’t want to tell you, but the shop is not doing well at all. Yesterday the moneylender sent his goondas to beat up Satpal. He was lucky, but his partner, Mohan Lal, has a broken leg. We don’t know what to do. I am sorry for telling you all this, but…”

Bibi-ji leaned forward and patted Nimmo’s knee. “Come, come. I am the oldest member of your family now. You don’t need to hide anything from me.” She looked reproachfully at Nimmo. “I am your family, remember?” She waited, but Nimmo remained silent. “Can I help in any way?”

Still Nimmo hesitated, feeling humiliated by her need. To take a loan from Satpal’s sisters, a good friend, an unknown person in the bank or a moneylender was one thing. But to ask a newly discovered relative was another thing altogether.

“Nimmo, do you want me to lend you money?” Bibi-ji asked gently.

“Just for a short while,” Nimmo said, twisting her dupatta hard. Crying softly she said, “We will return it soon. With interest.”

“Why are you insulting me like this, Nimmo?” Bibi-ji asked. “I am like your mother now. Can a mother take interest from her daughter? No, no. I will lend you the money, and you return it when you are able to. Now go and make me a cup of chai.”

Bibi-ji waited until Satpal had returned the money to the moneylender and agreed on a repayment schedule with the bank. She waited until Nimmo had become comfortable with the idea of being in debt to her. She waited until the moment was propitious and then she said, “Nimmo, my daughter, I have a favour to ask of you.”

“Anything Bibi-ji, anything,” Nimmo said. “We owe this roof over our heads to you. How can I refuse you anything?”

“You know I want the best for you and your family,” Bibi-ji said. “And remember it is only if you
want to
give me this favour. I want no ill will between us.”

“How can you think that I will bear anything but affection and gratitude towards you, Bibi-ji?” Nimmo replied warmly. “You have done so much for us. Ask what it is you want. I don’t have much, but I will try to do the best I can.”

“Let me take one of your boys back with me to Vancouver,” Bibi-ji said.

Nimmo could not hide her shock. “You want to take away one of my sons?”

Bibi-ji rushed on. “I know it is a big thing to ask, but he will always be your child. I will merely take care of him for a few years, give him the best education I can afford. You don’t have to say anything now. Think about it for as long
as you want. You can let me know when you have decided. And remember, if you don’t agree, that is still okay. I will not be angry. It is just that Ooper-Wallah has not seen fit to fill my lap with children. I feel an emptiness inside, Nimmo, a vast emptiness even now. You cannot understand the feeling.” Bibi-ji’s eyes filled with tears. “All I want is to help my family—for you are the only family I have. The child will have opportunities that you cannot give him here, and all our love and care. And remember, if you and Satpal decide to grant me this wish, Pa-ji and I will be the boy’s guardians, not his parents. You will not be losing him, only lending him to us for a few years.” She finished her tea and rose to leave. “It’s a big decision, I know. Take your time. I’m not forcing you. I won’t come back until you call me,” she added, picking up her handbag.

Nimmo nodded but did not speak. She was too overwhelmed to say anything—she did not know whether she was supposed to feel grateful to Bibi-ji or angry with herself and Satpal for having put themselves in this position. She felt betrayed, and guilty too, for deep inside her, another thought fought for survival. If she did not send one of her sons abroad, was she depriving him of a chance for a better life? He would be well taken care of—of that she had no doubt. Bibi-ji would enrol him in a good school where he would learn to be like those smart boys Nimmo saw in the better parts of New Delhi. He would become a doctor, perhaps an engineer. And once he was making a living he could bring Pappu and, Nimmo hoped, his soon-to-be-born sibling over as well. Then ashamed of how rapidly she had become accustomed to
the idea of parting with Jasbeer, how she was already building castles with the idea, she began tidying the house. The frenzied ordering of the furniture, folding of the clothes and reordering of pots and pans relieved some of her tension. Then there was Satpal. What would he think of lending his son to this woman who had suddenly appeared in their lives? Well, if he was angry, Nimmo could always point out it was his financial ineptitude that had led them to this point.

Satpal came home and, to Nimmo’s surprise and annoyance, was not as upset as she had imagined he would be. He nodded slowly when she told him of Bibi-ji’s request. “It is not a bad idea,” he said. “Think about it: so many people pay thousands of rupees and line up in front of the embassy for visas and immigration papers, and here our son is being sponsored like a king.”

“But my Pappu is only five and Jasbeer is seven. They are so young. And what do we know of these people? They live so far away, and all we know is what Bibi-ji has told us. Suppose she makes him into a chaprasi in their house instead of this king that you are imagining?”

“We can make inquiries. Lots of people in the gurud-wara know people in Canada.”

“But how do we decide which boy to send?” Nimmo cried. “And how can we give away the only thing that is completely our own, not on loan from anybody but God?”

“We are not giving away,” Satpal reasoned. “Didn’t you say that she will only be a guardian? We will ask her to sign legal papers—I will find out about this matter also at the
gurudwara. I know many people who have sent their children abroad with their relatives. It is a common thing.”

“But which one of our boys?” Nimmo asked again.

“Pappu is too young, he still needs his mother. Jasbeer can go. We will tell Bibi-ji that she will have to bring him back to us every year. Will that make you happy?”

Two weeks went by. Satpal made inquiries in the local temple about Bibi-ji and Pa-ji and, through a complex string of acquaintances, discovered that they were eminently respectable and well liked in Vancouver’s Punjabi community. They were known for their generous hospitality and their heavy involvement with the temple there.

“I told you,” Satpal announced as he delivered this information to Nimmo at home. “They are good and decent people. God-fearing too, I understand. And here you are, so suspicious!”

In the days that followed, Satpal was repeatedly able to point out to Nimmo the many people they knew who had allowed their children to be brought up by relatives that were better off, to everyone’s advantage. He argued that the boys were his sons too, and surely he had a right to decide what to do with them as well. Not that he did not love them, he insisted—he did, and therefore he was wisely thinking of their best interests.

Finally convinced, Nimmo went over to Asha’s house to phone Bibi-ji. Since Asha was in the room eavesdropping shamelessly, Nimmo kept her conversation brief, merely asking Bibi-ji to come over whenever it was convenient. The older woman arrived almost immediately in
a flurry of purple clothes and jingling bracelets, her lips outlined in bright pink lipstick. She hugged Nimmo and patted Satpal on the back, deposited another consignment of fruit, sweets and savouries in the kitchen and settled into a chair.

“I was talking to my Pa-ji,” she began before anyone else could speak. “I told him about my offer and he scolded me. He said you would think that I wanted to buy the child with our money. He said it was wrong of me, and now I feel ashamed. I only want to do everything I can for you, Nimmo. Everything.”

“No, no, don’t say that,” Satpal said, throwing Nimmo a reproachful glance. “We don’t think badly of you, do we, Nimmo? We have decided to send our Jasbeer with you. But you will please promise to bring him back to us every year during school holidays.”

“Of course,” Bibi-ji said, her face radiant.

“It will be a lot of money for you to spend, Bibi-ji, but I don’t know how I could bear to be away from my son …” Nimmo said.

“Every year,” Bibi-ji promised. “Every year your son will return to you. I will bring him myself.”

There was much paperwork to be done: legal sponsorship forms to be filed, a passport for Jasbeer, a visa, all kinds of travel details, but Bibi-ji, in a fever of joyous excitement, had no doubt that it would all be accomplished. Pa-ji’s various contacts in government and the bureaucracy were phoned and matters arranged with Bibi-ji energetically directing operations.

In the middle of this flurry of activity Nimmo gave birth to a baby girl, whom she named Kamal Kaur. She was glad that Jasbeer would be able to spend a few months with his sister before leaving for Canada.

One evening Satpal told his older son how his future had abruptly been changed. Nimmo, who regretted her decision a little more each day, kept her eyes fixed on the small face, not sure how Jasbeer would react. To her surprise, at first, Jasbeer was proud that he and not his brother had been chosen. He strutted around the house speaking broken English and ordering an awed Pappu around. Bibi-ji took him out alone—just him, and not his brother—a few times, and he seemed pleased to be the focus of attention, delighted with the treats that his newfound great-aunt bought for him, thrilled with the places she took him.

But as his departure drew near, he began to balk at the thought of leaving his parents and his home. Now, when Bibi-ji sang out his name and asked if he wanted to go to this park or that fair, he shook his head and stuck out his lower lip. No, he did not wish to go anywhere. Because his stomach was aching. Because he had hurt his leg. Just because. And when Nimmo scolded him gently for being so unaccommodating, pushed him into Bibi-ji’s extended arms, allowed him to be crushed against her bosom, Jasbeer grew even more fearful and moody.

Then the day arrived when all the paperwork was done. Bibi-ji arrived triumphantly with the visa, passport and tickets for the flight to Vancouver. But after she had left for the night, Jasbeer turned his dark, hurt eyes on
Nimmo. “Why do I have to go?” he asked. Was he being sent away so that his mother could focus on Pappu and the baby? Was she angry with him? “Why me and not Pappu, Mummy?”

Because he is younger, putthar,
Nimmo wanted to say to the child standing so stiff and accusing before her.
He needs me more than you do.
But the words would not come. How could she have agreed? Would Jasbeer ever forgive her?

“Because you love him more than me?” Jasbeer asked in a small voice.

“That is not true, putthar,” Nimmo said beseechingly. “I love you both equally. Your father and I want you to get the best opportunity in the world, and Bibi-ji will take good care of you.” She reached out to hug Jasbeer, but he burst into tears.

“Don’t send me away, please, Mummy, please,” he cried. “I promise I will be a good boy. I won’t fight with Pappu.”

Nimmo held her son close. “Don’t cry, putthar, it is all for your own good,” she consoled, pushing away the doubts that assailed her.

A week later, at the airport, Jasbeer clung to his mother’s hand while Bibi-ji checked their luggage. Feeling like a criminal, struggling to control her emotions, Nimmo peeled the boy’s small fingers off her own one by one. Wordlessly she kissed his face again and again, and then handed him over to Bibi-ji. She watched Bibi-ji smooth a long strand of hair off Jasbeer’s flushed cheek with a tender palm and she saw him walk reluctantly into the passenger lounge, his sturdy body trotting beside
Bibi-ji’s large, brightly coloured form. Before he disappeared into the crowd he gave her a forlorn, backward glance that pierced her to the heart.

It’s for his own good,
she murmured, leaning against Satpal, who stood rigidly beside her. For his own good.

I
n the kitchen of her Taj Mahal, Bibi-ji sat at the table, an island of quiet in the sea of sound that filled her home as always. She looked up briefly as Jasbeer stamped into the house and up the stairs.