Child of Spring (8 page)

I
served Little Bibi her breakfast, refilled her glass with water, and stood at attention with my back against the wall in case she wanted something else. Sure enough, her spoon clattered to the floor. “Get it, will you?” she said.

I dashed forward to pick it up.

“Mind that you wash it before you set it down,” Memsaab said, but she needn’t have. I knew what to do.

I rinsed the spoon in the sink just outside the dining room and placed it close to Little Bibi’s plate. Her new ring was hard to miss.

“Look, Bibi,” I said, pointing to my own finger. “I wear mine everyday too.”

“So?” Little Bibi said, chewing a mouthful of food.

Oo Maa!
She didn’t have to be so rude about it!

I buffed the ring against my cotton skirt. “I think it’s beginning to lose its shine, Amma,” I said.

“No time to talk about the ring just now.” Amma’s eyes were on the embers in our hearth.

“It’s really looking quite old, see?” I held up the ring but Amma focused on her dinner preparations. “I mean, it’s not even half as good as Little Bibi’s new ring, is it?”

“
Chi,
Basanta!” snapped Amma. “Why do you babble so? It was good enough not so long ago. What has changed between then and now?”

It’s Little Bibi’s new ring,
I said to myself.
Her new ring is making me change my mind about this old one.

My mother dished out a portion of food in a stainless steel box and tied it in a square cloth. “Take this to Lali’s family,” she told me.

I walked fast to keep the food warm. “Mausi! Look!” I called when I was ten paces from her door. As soon as the sharp, tangy aroma of
dhal
wafted in the hut, the little ones came scurrying.

“Basanta, daughter!” Vimla Mausi cried and her hand stopped at her mouth.

Lali wrapped her arms about me. “I just knew in my heart,” she whispered in my ear and we looked and we saw ourselves in each other’s eyes.

Vimla Mausi measured out portions carefully. I saw that hers was the smallest of all.

Their predicament gnawed in my head like a mouse nibbling on grain. I was grateful for Amma but there had to be another way to keep Mausi’s rice pot filled.

On the way back home, I stopped beneath the tamarind tree to visit with Dinoo Kaka. “Look, Dinoo,” I cried, waving my hand in the air, “My ring is beginning to be as tired and faded as Tikki. Don’t you agree?”

The feathery tamarind leaves swished with the breeze.
Caw, caw,
Dinoo answered from above.

“Hanh,”
I called back. “You are right, of course. A ring is a ring, even with a red stone missing and a band less golden. Tikki? She’s well, thank you. She may be ragged and old, but she makes my heart very happy.”

I leaned against the broad trunk and my mind hopped from place to place—from the Big Kitchen to the jamun berry tree to the riverbank—and then it rested on Lali.
Poor Lali,
I said to myself.
She has less in her cooking pot than I have on my finger.

Dinoo cawed again. I think he too had Lali on his mind.

Then, from not so far away, I saw Paki and Raju’s heads bobbing my way.

“
Oi
!” I yelled. “Turn back right now!”

“We’re coming for tamarind and you can’t stop us!” Paki said.

“You won’t find any. I already looked!”

“
Bah!
Big Brother, I’m betting the sty in her eye would keep her from finding her own rear end if she went hunting for it!” Raju scoffed.

“Don’t come up here!” I warned.

“You don’t own the tree,” Paki growled. The
goonda
boys circled the tree twice.

“Owls! I’ve told you already you won’t find any tamarind!” I shouted.

“You’re always under the tree, stealing tamarind for your mother’s pot,” Paki said.

“Lies!” Didn’t they ever quit? Wasn’t it enough that they had ruined Tikki’s wedding and broken Rukmani’s pots?

“I bet they’re under her bum!”

“Oh ho!”

Two pairs of eyes glinted wickedly.

“On your feet!” Raju barked.

“There’s nothing under me!” I said. “Go away!” I held my hands up to ward them off.

Paki’s eyes narrowed. “What’s that thing on your finger?”

“It’s not a tamarind,” I said.

“Hand it over!”

They tried to pry the ring off my finger and I fought back. But Paki put me in a headlock and Raju was rolling up his sleeve menacingly.

“Get it, brother!” Paki yelled and I squeezed my eyes shut. I couldn’t fight them both off and there was no way out either. Helplessly, I waited for the ring to be forced from my finger.

But luck was on my side.

Pentamma Mausi strode up just in the nick of time. “
Oi!
Didn’t you hear me calling and calling?” She twisted their ears so hard it made them squeal.

“Ow! Ow!”

“Let go, Amma!”

“You untied Ramu’s goat again!”

“
Na.
Lies, all lies!” they protested.

Paki and Raju hollered but it was no use. Their mother dragged them both away, wriggling and squirming and yelling.

With the
goonda
boys gone, I settled back under the tree to resume my thoughts about Lali. There was an idea and a plan forming.
Yes
—I talked myself through the plan
—you must do this first and next, you must do that.

I pushed up, dusted off my palms, and headed to the grain store.

I
heard Lalla-ji’s booming voice even before I saw him. The grain merchant sat cross-legged on the white cotton floor-spread, barking orders to his men: “
Oi!
Put the rice in this corner! The wheat goes there! The barley next to the millet!” In response, they grunted and scurried about like ants.

He held a scale that teetered and tottered as he added or took away each iron weight. Behind him, a dozen bins filled with lentil and grain were lined up like docile children. The goddess of wealth, bathed in flowers and incense, smiled from her pedestal.

I greeted him, my palms joined together. “
Ram Ram,
Lalla-ji.”

“Ram Ram,”
he called back. “What brings you here at this hour?” His eyes twinkled behind spectacles that were halfway down his nose. His belly spilled over his lap under a see-through muslin shirt.

“We are running low on rice, you see.”

“Hanh.”
Lalla-ji nodded sympathetically. “It’s near the end of the month, after all.”

People’s supplies of rice, lentils, and flour often ran out this late in the month, and they lined up at his shop with cloth bags, eager to fill their pots again.

The grain merchant set the dipper down. “Is everyone well at home?”

“They are well, Lalla-ji.”

“Did your mother send you for the rice?”

“She doesn’t know that I am here,” I said quickly.

“Oh?”

“I want to surprise her, you see.”

The merchant chuckled. “I will measure out as much as you can carry back safely,” he said. “Did you bring money with you?”

“No. But I have something better.” I held out the ring.

Lalla-ji peered over the rim of his spectacles. “What’s this, my girl?”

“You can keep it,” I said. “It will pay for the rice.”

It was the only thing of value I had to bargain with, the only thing that would make Lali’s dreams sweet again.

The merchant turned the ring over in his hand. “Hmm. Where did you get this?”

“It’s mine, Lalla-ji,” I answered. “Honest.”

Lalla-ji scratched his bald pate. “I don’t know …”

I didn’t know why Lalla-ji sounded so unsure. Did he think the ring was a fake? Or perhaps he was worried that I had stolen it?

“It’s a very nice present from my Little Bibi,” I said, “and you won’t be sorry to have it, I promise.”

The merchant swatted at a fly and sent it humming.

“Please, Lalla-ji?”

The grain merchant mopped his neck and brow with the cloth.
“Uff oh!”
he groaned. “Today this heat will surely kill me!”

A rickety fan turned weakly, like an old lady looking this way and that. The breeze made Lalla-ji’s muslin shirt billow out.
Tick, tick, tick.
I waited for his decision.

“Accha,”
he said at last. Grunting, Lalla-ji scooped rice from his sack with a measuring tin and poured it into a bag. He placed the bag on the scale. “Two
ser
,” he said. “Carry it carefully.”

I was so happy I wanted to shout. Two
ser
of rice would carry Vimla Mausi through until her wages flowed again. I held the bag in the crook of my arm and turned to go.

“
Oi
. You forgot something!” Lalla-ji held out the ring.

Why was he giving it back to me? “We made a fair trade,” I told him. “The ring is yours to keep.”

He smiled. “A pretty ring for a pretty finger.”

“But it’s a nice ring. Lalla-ji. You could sell it for a lot of rupees.”

“Keep it.” He swatted at the fly again and missed. “Tell your good parents I send them my greetings and wish for their troubles to be over soon.”

“I will,” I said, and added quickly, “But you must not talk about the ring. Make a god promise and swear it on your head.”

The merchant nodded. “
Accha-ji.
A secret is a secret,” he chuckled and his big stomach jiggled.

I took the rice to Lali’s hut. I hoped to see Vimla Mausi’s eyes light up like the stars. Instead, I saw great sadness in them.

“First you bring me food from your pot and now you bring me this,” she sobbed.

“Aiyyo!”
I cried. “The food wasn’t tasty? My mother is a very good cook!”

With a cry, Vimla Mausi pulled me close. “
Na,
dear Basanta,” she whispered. “I am grateful for the generosity. Your dear mother has a heart of gold!”

I opened my mouth to tell her the whole story, but I didn’t want to brag. Amma always said the left hand must not know what the right hand gives, so I kept my mouth shut.

“It’s not so much. The rice will probably last only for a few days,” I said.

“In one week I will collect my wages,” Vimla Mausi said with a smile. “And I will repay your mother.”

“Mausi!” I cried. “Amma is happy to help.”

And I was happy that the rice pot would bubble in Lali’s home that night. Perhaps she would have sweet dreams about the Milk Boy once again.

O
n Saturday, Lali came to my door. “Come, quickly!” she urged. “The fight’s ready to begin! Do you hear the shouts?”

A big fistfight always preceded the Great Battle of Kites. It always lasted exactly twenty minutes. Words were flung in the first half, and fists in the second.

And each year, the question was the same. Who was going to be the number one champion kite flyer of the
busti?

I wondered who would be victorious this time.

Paki would say,
Who else but I?

Bala would say,
In your dreams!

Then words would turn to blows and everyone would egg them on from the sidelines, clapping and cheering.

I hiked up my skirt to go join Lali, but Amma stopped me.

“Please, Amma,” I begged. “I’ll be back just as soon as there is a knockout!”

“Let her go,” Bapu said. “It’s harmless enough.”

My mother shook her head and went back to stoking the fire.

I threw my father a grateful look and ducked out of our hut. “Did it turn into a fistfight yet?” I asked Lali.

“It … it may be too early for that,” she panted.

“Do you think Paki will win?” I asked.

“Hard to say,” Lali replied. “He says he’ll vanquish fifty kites before the season is over. We must hurry. Things will be starting up any minute!”

Up ahead we saw the washerwoman kicking up dust, her sari hitched high and a twig in her hand.

“Uh-oh! Paki’s mother’s got wind of the fight!” I cried. “We’ve got to get there before she ruins everything!”

But by the time we reached the field, the washerwoman was already pushing through the gathered crowd.

“It’s no use,” Lali sighed. “We’re too late.”

She was right.

“The fight’s over,” Nandi announced when she saw us approaching.

“Who won?” I asked.

“Bala threw some good punches,” Pummi replied. “But Pentamma Mausi came and sent him scurrying.”

“Big Brother had victory just about wrapped up in his back pocket, so I’d say he was the winner,” Raju boasted.

“No, no. It was the other way around,” Hari said. “
Dhushoom! Dhushoom!
Quick jabs to the chin and shoulder and Paki was flat on his back!”

I turned to Lali. “Thanks a lot!” I snorted.

Lali held up her hand. “What?”

“You should have come for me a lot sooner, that’s what!”
I ran to catch up with Paki, now dodging his mother’s stick.

“Hey!” I called to him. “I heard you got beat good and plenty!”

“Get lost!” he shouted.

I ran up to Bala next. “Say! I heard you got thrashed good and plenty!”

“Beat it!” he growled.

When it was nearly time for the kite battle, Lali, Nandi, Pummi, Dev, Hari, and I formed a tight circle near the rim of the field. We each readied our stash of tamarind seeds to place our bets.

“Bala, 6 to 1!” I declared. If he won, I’d make a tidy profit of six tamarind seeds for each one I wagered. I tossed twenty seeds in the center of the circle.

“Are you sure?” Lali asked. “Did you forget he lost to Paki last year?”

“He’s going to win,” I said with a burst of confidence. “You should back him too.”

“Bala, 3 to 1!” Lali cautiously added her modest share of ten to the seed pile.

Nandi followed suit, but she only had six seeds.

Twenty plus ten plus six. That was not even remotely close to the one hundred and twenty I had counted on winning. Pummi, Dev, and Hari had enough seeds in their bulging pockets to ensure me my win, though. They were
whispering fiercely amongst themselves and I could tell they too were favoring Bala. So I did some fast talking. Soon I had the silly things nodding in agreement, and now I was one step closer to a big win.

“Paki, 20 to 1!” they declared. They emptied out their pockets, making our collective pool very large!

“
Shabaash!
Bravo!” I cried. “I’ll guard these because I am the bookie.” I swept up the last of the tamarind seeds—all one hundred and fifty of them.

The two rivals entered the field to loud cheers and catcalls. Bala and Paki were each armed with five brilliantly colored kites and large spools bulging with line. They also carried smaller spools of
manja
thread, the dangerous fighter string coated with powdered glass.
Manja
was as sharp as a razor, and the winner would use it to slice the opponent’s kite away from its line.

Like warriors in a fighting ring, both boys strutted like roosters. Each made a show of tying the
manja
to the harness of his kite and then securely attaching the longer line.

If Amma were here, she’d cluck her tongue. She didn’t understand kites. “
Tcha!
That Bala!” she would mutter. “Never enough money for food but always plenty for his precious kites!”

Bala waved to the crowd and took his bows like a champion kite master. I was rooting for him all the way. There
was a big pile of tamarind seeds at stake!

He was at a disadvantage because of his defeat last year, but I didn’t care. I was 100 percent certain that Paki had cheated in that contest. The kites had been locked in a deathly embrace. Bala had backed up the length of the field. Raju had slyly stuck out his leg, and Bala had gone down. That’s how Paki had won.

I was determined to make up for that this year.

I ran to Paki’s corner. “Do you have a strategy in place?” I asked.

Paki was securing the
manja
thread to the harness of Jhansi-ki-Rani, a garish pink kite. Paki named his kites after important and heroic persons. The greater the importance of the person, the greater the power of the kite—or so he claimed. He was saving Maharani, his finest kite, for the decisive final round.

“Hoosh!”
He waved me away. “Only a fool would divulge secrets to a spy from the enemy camp!”

I moved in closer, faking an interest in Jhansi-ki-Rani, but Paki shuffled sideways like a crab. “Stay away from my kite!” he growled.

“Are you sure she’s a match for Shivaji-the-Mighty? Bala’s sending up Shivaji first, you know. It’s a brilliant strategy, if you ask me.”

“A fat lot you know about kites!” he said. “Get out!”

Paki was good and riled up now, just the way I wanted him. If he lost his focus, he’d be more likely to lose the battle and I’d win a huge pile of tamarind seeds.

“I hear the Milk Man is planning a celebration party,” I went on. “And guess who the guest of honor will be? Not you, I’ll bet!”

My taunts made Paki so mad that he spun around on his heel to lunge at me. Before we knew what was what, his fingernail had gouged an ugly tear right down the middle of the pretty Jhansi-ki-Rani.

“Oops!” I said. “Now look what you did!”

Paki’s jaw dropped. “Oops? Look … look what
I
did?” he sputtered. “It was all your fault!”

“Yeah, you horrible,
badmaash
girl!” Raju added.

“I was just making conversation.” I backed away quickly.

“I paid good money for this kite, and you ruined it!” Paki yelled.

“It was your fingernail!” I said.

“You’re a spy and a destroyer of kites!” Paki shouted.

“Your dirty fingernails are longer than the dirty nails on a sadhu,” I said. “Why don’t you do something about that?”

“Why don’t you pack yourself up in a jute bag and go far, far away and never come back!” Raju roared.

“
Oi!
What’s the ruckus?” Bala called from the other end of the field. “Are you ready for battle or not?”

“Change of plan!” Raju announced. “Change of plan! We are using Akbar-the-Great!” He held up a majestic new kite, as green as a glossy guava.

“No fair! What happened to Jhansi-ki-Rani?” Bala asked.

“It’s Akbar-the-Great, okay?” Paki yelled back. “Take it or leave it!”

“Bring him on!” Bala shouted. “Akbar-the-Great, Jhansi-ki-Rani—it’s all the same to me!”

I ran to join Lali waiting on the sideline. She moved over to make room for me. “What was all that about?” she asked.

“Oh, just a teeny mishap,” I replied. “I wouldn’t worry too much if I were you.”

I crossed my fingers and waited. Paki was still hopping mad, and that meant wouldn’t be at his best during the contest. I was counting on that.

The battle of kites lasted the better part of the morning. Akbar-the-Great went up against Shivaji-the-Mighty, fierce black against brilliant green. They made a fantastic spectacle in the sky, whirling, swirling, dipping, and soaring. Paki and Bala tugged, gave slack, and maneuvered their kites into spins and loops to wild roars from the crowd.

Paki’s Akbar-the-Great emerged victorious at the end of the first battle, but Bala didn’t appear worried. Cool as a cucumber on a hot day, he pulled out the kite he called General.

I watched entranced, biting on my fingernails, every part of me quivering.

And so it went. Akbar-the-Great versus General; General versus Dilip Kumar; General versus Mahatama Gandhi. On and on the war raged, battle after battle, to jubilant cries of
Bo Kata!
from the victors.

“Wah! Wah!”
shouted the spectators, each time a vanquished kite drifted sadly away, tail fluttering and severed line trailing.

Two hours later, the score was dead even. Bala’s Lodhi had just defeated Mahatama Gandhi. Paki had brought out the fierce Maharani for the final round. Bala would fly Lodhi again. This was the moment everyone was waiting for.

“Get him, Bala!” I screamed.

Paki! Paki! Bala! Bala!
The crowd was going wild.

The combatants rolled up their sleeves and prepared for the decisive thrust. And when the wind was just right, Paki and Bala nodded. Raju and Dev got the kites into position and let go. Maharani and Lodhi rose majestically and fearlessly skyward.

I held my breath.

Up the kites climbed, goaded by the rush of wind. Soon they were mere specks, ready for the strike. Lodhi and Maharani dove at each other like fighting cocks, circling, sometimes teasing, sometimes enraged. They jabbed and pecked at one another, now wild and erratic, now determined and purposeful. The kites would fly close enough for an embrace, then dart away and hover at a distance from one another, tense and watchful.

At last it was time for the kill. Who would deliver the fatal blow? Sweeping their arms wide, Paki and Bala sent their kites into the final death embrace.

I sucked in my breath. “Do it now, Bala!” I screamed. “Slice! Kill! Pulverize!”

Bala and Paki each galloped backwards across half the length of the field, heel over toe, raising clouds of dust under their bare feet. Hand over arm, they reeled in the string.

Beside me, Lali sucked in her breath. “Who will it be?” she whispered.

Our eyes were glued to the sky. Who indeed?

And then it happened. Maharani broke away from her tether and wobbled away on a wind current. Lodhi was victorious! Bala had won!

“
Bo Kata
!” Bala’s final victory cry rent the air. He grinned from ear to ear.

The crowd lifted him onto their shoulders and cheered: “Long live Bala! Long live Bala!”

Then I caught sight of Paki coming toward me, a threatening scowl on his face. He charged like a mad bull and kicked dust at me. “It’s your fault!” he screamed.