“But he might come to Niki and tell him that he was adopted. That his son is Niki’s father. What do we do then?” She’s twirling the end of her georgette sari around her finger as she talks, her voice a hush.
“Before long, Niki will be old enough that you can tell him yourself, if that’s what you and Manu choose to do. But I doubt Samir will talk to Niki if you don’t give him your consent.” I’m speaking with a confidence I don’t entirely feel.
Kanta bites her lip. “You don’t think Samir Sahib would take the opportunity to start a conversation with his grandson on the cricket grounds?”
I’m wondering how Auntie-Boss would answer that, when Kanta says, “It’s why I go to every game. To keep an eye on Niki. And if I can’t be there, Baju knows to bring my son directly home from practice.” She sniffles, presses her sari to her nose.
“Listen to me, Auntie. First, the Singhs would have a lot to lose if word got out that Ravi is the father. Everyone would know Radha was underage when Ravi got her pregnant. Second, they took no responsibility, and hushed the matter up by sending Ravi thousands of miles away. It would be a scandal for them, and I doubt the Singhs would risk it.” Another thought occurs to me, and I tap Auntie’s arm. “By the way, Samir drives a Mercedes, not a Jeep.”
She searches my face, then lets out an embarrassed laugh. “You’re right! The problem might not be Samir—it might be my imagination!”
A new, disturbing, thought occurs to me. “Has Niki ever asked about this? Have any of the kids at school suggested he’s adopted?” It’s never made sense to me that while royal adoptions are public, private adoptions are considered shameful. No couple wants to admit they are sterile; it’s considered a personal failing, a problem best solved by magical gems, amulets and alms to Ganesh.
The worry returns to Kanta’s voice. “I don’t know of any. Niki’s never asked. We try to keep things as normal as possible.” Her gaze drifts behind us, to the house. “I haven’t noticed any changes in him.”
Before she unlatches the gate, she says, “Thank you, Malik. I feel better now.” When she shuts the gate behind me, another thought occurs to her. “You sure you don’t want Baju to drive you home?”
The guesthouse is only twenty minutes on foot. I shake my head and tell her that I need to walk off that superb meal. I thank her for a wonderful time and ask her to give my thanks to Manu, as well. And then I head home, my head now swirling with anxieties about the boy his parents are determined to protect from the clutches of the Singhs.
7
NIMMI
Shimla
At night, after Rekha and Chullu have dropped off to sleep on either side of me, I look through the picture books Lakshmi has lent us. They are children’s books, she said, that she borrows from the Shimla library. I never knew there was a place where you could go look at books, much less borrow them, then return them when you are through looking. Imagine! Something that precious! That’s like borrowing a woman’s bridal jewelry for your marriage and giving it back the next day. No one in their right mind would hand over something that valuable and expect to get it back!
I hold the book to my nose and inhale, trying to call up the scents of all the hands that have flipped the pages. But all I smell is something like the atta I make chapattis with. I turn the pages carefully. Our tribal elders may not know how to read, but they revere those who can. Books contain magic, they say. If we so much as stepped on a book or on a piece of paper, we were punished. I trace the letters with my finger, and mouth out the words in the book, just as Lakshmi taught us to do. She spends an hour reading with Rekha and me every afternoon. Sometimes Lakshmi shows us how to write the names of the foods we’re eating. I now know that the word chapatti starts with a c.
Wait until I show Malik that I can write my name now! So can Rekha. Dev would be so proud of her! She learns so quickly; she thinks nothing of it. At four years old she’s learning what I’m only learning at the age of twenty-two or twenty-three (I think that one of those is right!). I’ve always been able to do simple math in my head, but now I take great pride in writing out the names of numbers from one to ten (ake, dho, theen, chaar!), and now that I’m learning to read, I can recognize the numbers by their names.
Lakshmi has given each of us a workbook so we can practice. Sometimes, when I’m in the garden, I copy the names of the plants that are written on labels in each row. Even if I don’t know what the labels say, I want to find out, later, so I can remember them.
When I form the letter M, I think of Malik, and wonder if I might, someday, read the letters that he sends. When Lakshmi reads his words and thoughts to me, I feel embarrassed, ashamed even. Those messages should be a private thing, between Malik and me; I want to read the parts I like best by myself, or just take his letters with me when I go up on the ridge at night. I like to imagine his fingers tented on the corner of the thin paper, holding it steady, as he writes my name. I sometimes think how it would feel to have him write “Nimmi” on my palm, my back, my thigh!
I finally allowed Lakshmi to henna our hands—mine and Rekha’s. Lakshmi is so practiced that it took her only minutes to create a new design for Rekha. Rekha was so good; she didn’t move a muscle until the henna paste was dry enough that it could be removed.
On Rekha’s palms, Lakshmi drew an elephant with its trunk stretching from one palm to the other. When Rekha brings her hands together, the elephant is complete, and she squeals in delight. She moves her hands, pretending that the elephant is raising its trunk and moving it about.
When Lakshmi tried to put some dots on Chullu’s palms, he tried to lick the henna off, which made us laugh!
The first time Lakshmi asked me what design I wanted on my hands, I couldn’t think of one. So she decided to draw peonies on one palm and roses on the other. When I bring my hands together, I have a bouquet that I can raise to my nose and breathe in the henna’s clean and earthy smell. It reminds me of my wedding day, the only other time my hands and arms and feet were decorated.
Chullu is fussing and I rub his back until he falls asleep again. My boy. A year old already! He’s walking and starting to talk. In a few years, Rekha will be able to teach him how to read and write his name. That would never have been possible if Dev hadn’t died, and we hadn’t left the mountains, and my people, to live in town. I would love for Dev to be with us now. I want him to see how his children are thriving. How I’m doing what I never thought possible: learning to live without our tribe, and without him. All at once, my eyes fill. How I loved those creases on the sides of his mouth, the rough feel of his palms, hardened by years of guiding his shepherd’s crook, scaling trees to chop leaves and branches for the goats to feed on. How he loved his goats! I can almost hear him saying, Never approach a goat from the front, a horse from the back, or a fool from the side! Then he would laugh. Oh, how he would laugh, as if it was the first time he’d said it!