Chained (2 page)

I gather the grasses and twist the ends to hold them together. With the bundle of river grass tucked under my arm, I climb the rickety ladder to the roof. Raj lies down next to the ladder to wait for me.

The thatch crunches beneath my hands and knees as I crawl to the spot that leaks. I take a piece of twine from my pocket and hold it in my teeth as I work to cover the hole.

When I was a little boy, the age Chanda is now, I thought our home grew right out of the ground and that our roof was made of a tree whose branches drooped down to cover the walls. I cried when I found out I was wrong.

“I built our home from the earth, Hastin,” Baba told me. “And it is made from the river, too. I mixed the river water with the dirt, until it was thick enough to make strong walls.”

I asked him then about the tree that grew to make our roof.

“Also from the river,” said Baba. “I gathered the reeds and grasses that grew in the water. After the sun dried them, I tied them in bundles to make our roof. That post in the middle of the hut—that is a tree trunk. I placed it in the ground myself, to hold the roof over us.”

As I tie the knot that will hold the new grass on our roof, I realize I wasn’t completely wrong. A tree did help to make our home. So did the earth, and the sun, and the river. But so did Baba, and that is even better.

On my way back to the ladder, I stop when I see something moving in the distance. I watch and wait as it gets closer. Finally I can make out the shape of the rickshaw, with Amar pedaling in front and Amma sitting in the back. That’s all. I wait for Chanda’s head to come into view next to Amma. But she isn’t there.

Maybe she’s lying in Amma’s lap and that’s why I can’t see her. That has to be it.

I scramble down the ladder and jump to the ground, skipping the last three rungs. As fast as I can I run toward the rickshaw, then skid to a stop when I’m close enough to see the empty seat next to Amma.

“Where…?” The rest of my question is stuck in my throat. I point to the seat where Chanda should be.

“Let’s go inside,” Amma says as she climbs out of the rickshaw. All the eyes of our neighbors are on us as we walk to our hut.

Inside, we sit down next to each other and I lean against Amma. Neither of us speaks. Maybe we’re both trying to hang on to this moment, when everything feels safe and all we need is each other.

She brushes my hair back with her hand. My wavy hair and round face are like Baba’s. I wonder if Amma still sees him when she looks at me, and if the reminder hurts or makes her happy.

“Amma, where is Chanda?”

“I had to leave her at the hospital. The doctors think she will be all right, with the treatment they are giving her.”

“But how much will that cost?”

It seems Amma is not going to answer. Finally she says, “Four thousand rupees.”

“Four thousand rupees! That’s—”

“Yes, four thousand rupees is more than we have. If I sewed day and night and we stopped eating until the year’s end, it’s still more than we’d have.”

“So what now? How will she get better if we’ll never have so much money?”

“Amar knew of a man who could loan us the money. The man—his name is Raju Sharma—sent a worker with the money for Chanda’s care. The whole four thousand! He handed it over like he was buying a bag of flour. Can you imagine it?” She looks like she is staring at something far away.

“We cannot lose her, Hastin. There is no way I could ever pay what the doctors wanted. Then there was this person who could take care of everything, and I told them yes, please help us. What else could I do?”

“How will we pay him back?”

Before she turns away, I see how tired she looks.

“I’ll work in the factory,” I offer.

“No!” Amma looks into my eyes.

Others have done this, like my best friend, Ajay. Many of the carpet factory workers are younger than I am.

“But you already work so hard,” I say. “And Chanda will need you at home to take care of her when she’s well. Let me help.”

“You’ve seen the children who come back from those places.”

She is right. When Ajay returned after a year of work, he looked like an old person, hunched over and too thin. He couldn’t stop coughing from the dust that filled the factory day after day. Thinking about it makes my throat scratchy.

I hang my head. “Then how do we pay back Sharmaji?”

“He needs a new maid to clean his house in the city.”

“In the city? So we have to move there?” I glance around our hut and out the window toward the courtyard. Everything I know is here.

“No, Hastin, just me.”

So I will be alone?
I hold my breath, as if caught in a sandstorm with no cloth to cover my face.

“I need you to stay here to take care of our home. When Chanda is well enough, Amar will drive you to the hospital to pick her up. I will talk to the neighbors before I leave. I’m sure they’ll help you.” She takes both of my hands in hers. “I’m sorry—I have to do this for Chanda. It would be different if your father were still here. But he is gone and so are his carvings. I wish I knew another way.”

“It’s all right, Amma.” I wipe the tears from her face and try my best to look brave. But I worry I’ll never feel safe again.

Chanda will get better, and Amma found a way to take care of us and pay the hospital. It strikes me then that my prayers have been answered.

3

Family members will encourage an injured elephant to stand and rejoin the herd.

—From
Care of Jungle Elephants
by Tin San Bo

After Amma has been gone for a week, Amar offers to take me to visit her. “My brother wants to sell his camel, but he’s too old to make the trip to the market himself,” he tells me. “Take care of the camel this week, then ride with me to the city and we’ll surprise your mother.”

I’m happy to have the work. It keeps my mind off my loneliness. Raj has been following me around more than ever, like he knows we have only each other. He even sleeps in the house with me now. I think Amma would say it’s all right.

Each morning at sunrise I cross the courtyard to Amar’s hut. After I untie the camel from her post, I lead her around while she grazes on the plants. At night I join my neighbors for dinner, then return to Amar’s home to clean up after the camel and give her an evening walk. At first I tried to pet her, but now I stand as far away from her as I can. She’s surprised me too many times by biting me or licking my face. I’ve learned to jump out of the way, but I still cannot avoid her spitting.

When I ask Amar the camel’s name, he tells me she doesn’t have one.

“I’ll call her Moti,” I say.

“You like the name Moti?” he asks.

“No. I have a cousin named Moti. He’s mean and he smells bad.”

“Good name,” Amar says.

Moti licks my cheek. I storm off to wash my face.

At the week’s end I can hardly sleep, thinking about what I’ll say to Amma when I see her.

We leave before sunrise. Amar wants to make sure he has plenty of time during the shopping day to sell Moti.

I help load food and jars of water into a basket on Moti’s back, then we begin our journey to the market. Raj stands in the road barking as we leave, but he doesn’t follow. He hasn’t liked Moti ever since she stepped on him when he got too close.

Amar and I take turns riding Moti and pedaling the rickshaw. Between the bouncing ride on the camel and the pedaling, everything on my body aches by the time we reach the city.

When we find our way to Raju Sharma’s house, I stand at the end of a long driveway and look up. I wonder what it’s made of. The walls are whiter than any sand I’ve ever seen. Many people must have worked for a long time to build this house that seems bigger than my whole village.

“This is all one house?” I ask.

“Yes, Sharmaji is a rich man.”

“He must have a big family.” I start to walk up the driveway.

Amar grabs my shoulder. “Come, I’ll take you to the back door.”

We circle the house, Amar walking with the rickshaw while I lead Moti. The yard we enter has shrubs with tops so even and flat they could be used as tables. Some of the bushes have been cut to look like huge birds. A square pool of water, larger than four huts from my village, fills the center of the yard. I step closer. The water is deep, but I can see right through it to the bottom.

“I didn’t know water could be that clear.”

Then I see Amma.

She stands under a papaya tree. One arm encircles a basket, and her other hand clutches a papaya she’s picked off a branch. I’ve lived without her for two weeks, but it seems longer now. I want to grab her hand and run back home with her, where she belongs.

“Hastin?” she says. I hand Moti’s rope to Amar and run toward my mother, then stop. It looks like she’s trying to make herself smile. This isn’t the whole-face smile she always gets when she sees me. All this time, I thought she must be missing me as much as I’ve missed her, but now I’m wondering if I’ve done something wrong.

She glances up at the house, then drops the papaya into the basket and sets it down. Amar waits behind with Moti while I hurry across the yard to hug Amma. My stomach knots with worry when I notice blue-black skin around her left eye. In the short time since I’ve seen her, she looks smaller somehow, so I’m careful not to squeeze her too hard.

“I’ve missed you so much!” She steps back to look at me and combs my hair with her hand.

“I missed you, too, Amma.”

“But why—you came all this way—is everything all right?” She looks from me to Amar.

“Yes, everything is fine. I just wanted to see you.” I tell her about helping Amar with Moti. “But I don’t think anyone will buy her,” I say. “She bites.” I show her my arm. Amma laughs and kisses the bite marks Moti has given me.

“Amma, what happened to your eye?” When I reach out, she straightens and backs up a step before I can touch her face.

She raises her hand to the bruise. “Oh, that, it’s nothing,” she says. “Silly me, I walked into a door!”

Something isn’t right. Amma is talking much faster than she usually does, as if to keep me from figuring out what’s wrong. I feel the kind of worry I get when I first notice the change in the air that warns of a coming storm. My hand reaches into my pocket to hold Baba’s stone.

She points to the house. “It is beautiful, isn’t it?”

An earsplitting voice interrupts our conversation.

“Get that beast out of our yard!” Two children, a girl about my age and an older boy, stand near the back door of the house. I look to see what the girl is yelling about. Moti is nibbling on the head of one of the bird-shaped bushes as Amar tries to pull her away. I hurry toward them, then stop when a large stone flies across my path and hits the camel on the side of her head. The children laugh, then run into the house after the boy brushes dirt off of his hands.

I rush to Amar’s side. “Is she all right?” I ask. My mother follows close behind me. As much as I dislike Moti, I don’t want her to get hurt. How is she to know not to eat animal-shaped plants?

Amar struggles with the rope while Moti tries to break free. With one hand I grab the rope to help Amar, and with the other I pet Moti under the neck. The roughness of the rope sliding through my clutched fist burns my hand. Moti calms down and stops fighting. Before I can jump out of the way, she licks my face.

“Why does she have to do that?” I wipe off the camel slobber with my shirt.

“I should take her to the marketplace now,” Amar says to my mother.

“Yes, please do.” She looks toward the house, then back to Amar.

“I can stay with Hastin for a short time, then he can drive the rickshaw to the market and meet you there,” Amma says. “Thank you so much for bringing him with you. I’ll have more time to talk to Hastin if you come back tonight.”

My legs are so worn out from our trip I feel like they’ll fall off if I try to pedal again, but I do not argue. Amar tells me how to find the marketplace, then leads Moti away.

I look from one end of the house to the other. Gold and red curtains hang behind glass windows. I start to count them but lose my place.

“Which room is yours?” I ask.

“Oh, I don’t live in the big house, I just work there.” With a glance over her shoulder, Amma takes my hand and leads me farther into the yard. “I have to get back to work soon, but I’ll show you where I live.”

“How is Chanda?” I ask as we walk. “Can I see her? Will she come home soon?”

We take only a few steps before Amma answers, but the silence stretches out long enough to scare me.

“Not yet,” she says. “She’s not well enough to have visitors or leave the hospital.”

“But is she getting better?”

We stop in front of a small shack. Amma sighs and squeezes my hand. “The doctors are hopeful.”

The peeling paint that clings to the walls shows that the shack must have been white a long time ago. Amma turns the knob and pushes her shoulder against the door to open it. Insects scatter when the sunlight hits the floor.

“This is smaller than our hut,” I say when we step inside.

“Yes, but it’s only me. This is big enough for one person.”

“How many people live in that big house? Don’t they have room for you there?”

“Yes, of course they have room—there is only Sharmaji and his wife and their two children. But servants don’t live in the house with the family. It’s fine, really.”

A blanket on the dirt floor is her bed. One of her saris soaks in a bucket of water.

This is all wrong. I thought Amma would be okay here, that this place would be nicer than our home. I was worried about how Chanda and I would get along without her. I didn’t think about how she would get along without us.

“It’s so hot in here,” I say. Our own home has open windows to let the desert wind blow through. Here, the one window is covered with murky glass. “Can you open the window?”

“No, it’s stuck. It’s not so bad, though.” She starts to speak again, then drops to the ground and covers her face. I sit across from her and take her hands into mine.

“I’m going to get you out of here,” I say.

Her fingertips brush the side of my face, a soft touch with a rough hand. “I have to pay back Sharmaji.”