She looks sideways at Samir. “One thing’s for sure. She certainly knows how to stir up trouble.”
Parvati smiles at me, sweetly this time, and I almost believe it’s genuine until she says, “You tell Lakshmi that jealousy is not an admirable quality. She shouldn’t send her boy around here to get what she wants. Now, take your toys and go. You are not welcome here. Again. Ever.”
Should I explain my theory of the puzzle and the missing piece to Parvati? I steal a glance at Samir, who appears absorbed in his pencil. He looks—mortified? Embarrassed? It’s hard to say, but he won’t meet my eye.
I scoop up my discoveries, tuck them into my pockets and head out the door.
As I do, I hear Ravi’s voice. “Mummi, this is pure speculation! He’s trying to cause—”
I feel the force of the slap as if it had been directed at my cheek instead of Ravi’s.
25
NIMMI
Shimla
Yesterday and today, Dr. Kumar insisted on driving us to and from the Community Clinic. I’m used to walking there with Chullu on my back and Rekha at my side, but the doctor is afraid the traffickers might have heard about the tribal woman who walked into town with forty sheep a few days ago. It’s not a common sight. Men are usually the ones who do the herding, and it’s bound to have stirred up the gossip-eaters—careful as Lakshmi and I had been in choosing the route we took to the hospital grounds. Today, the sheep are in the custody of the old shepherd I hired to graze the flock west of here. And the sheared wool is safely stored in the Kumar pantry.
Once we’re at the hospital, surrounded by staff, Dr. Kumar breathes easier. He gives the sisters and nurses strict instructions not to let anyone through who is not a patient of the clinic. Then he heads over to the hospital to do his rounds while Rekha, Chullu and I walk out the back doors of the clinic into the Healing Garden.
I was relieved to find Lakshmi gone when the children and I awoke yesterday morning; Dr. Kumar had already taken her to the Shimla train station. I wouldn’t have known what to say to her after my outburst the night before. I know I shouldn’t blame her for the tragedy in Jaipur; she had no way of knowing what would happen. I’m just so scared that I’m going to lose Malik the way I lost Dev. Surely she must understand that.
Then, when I brought the children downstairs for breakfast, I saw that Lakshmi had set out saris and blouses for me to wear on the hospital grounds and in town so I wouldn’t draw attention to myself. That simple kindness, her concern for my safety, unsettled me. Was it shame I felt for not acknowledging the many things she has done for us since Malik left? For being disrespectful to my elder the way I would never have been to a woman of my tribe? For protecting us from the danger Vinay has put us in? How can I be both angry at her and grateful?
Now I cover my head with Lakshmi’s sari, shielding my face and my tattoo. I keep close watch on the children because Rekha tends to wander and Chullu waddles after her. He’s started walking only in the last month, but once he starts, he can get pretty far away before I notice.
I give the Healing Garden an appraising glance. Malik would be impressed. In the spots of the garden that used to be bare, I’ve planted herbs and flowers that Lakshmi and I agreed upon. The garden looks fuller now, with new shoots popping up in different places. I need to fertilize and water and make sure I remove dead leaves and any insects feeding on the plants. Lakshmi’s collection of herbs is impressive; I know some of them, but most are new to me. She’s trying to grow varieties from Rajasthan, but they’re not thriving at this altitude. If she asked for my opinion, I would tell her not to waste her time.
At the end of his workday, Dr. Kumar and the kids and I go back to his house, where we eat the dinner a local woman has made for us. (It seems that Lakshmi has seen to everything.) Last night, after dinner, Dr. Kumar helped Rekha and me with our reading and writing. Lakshmi left a stack of books for us, and he is diligently following her instructions.
A few times, when he’s handing me a book, our hands touch, and we both recoil as if we’d touched a flame. The taste of his lips on mine that one night in the fields has stayed with me. I sometimes touch my fingers to my lips, remembering where his lips had touched my own. It reminds me of Malik and how much I miss his touch.
I miss his letters, too. But with all the turmoil around the collapse, I don’t expect he will write.
Lakshmi’s been gone two days, and I know the doctor misses her. He told me this morning that he’ll call her when he returns from work tonight.
Madho Singh is also missing her. He complains when he’s in his cage, which is much of the day. When I leave the door to the cage open, he often stays inside instead of perching on the back of the sofa, as he does when Lakshmi is home. At random times, he shouts out proverbs that the maharani taught him. A drowning man catches at a straw. Squawk! Two swords do not fit in one scabbard. Squawk! Lakshmi and the doctor are fond of quoting him.
He’ll come out of his cage to greet the doctor when he comes home or anytime he happens to see Rekha. She talks to him as if he’s just another child her age. He always answers. His answers often make no sense, but Rekha makes up interesting conversations that don’t make any sense to me. She pretends to read to him from different children’s books (she knows the stories by heart now, and she likes to point out the illustrations to Madho Singh). It always seems to soothe him, and he’s usually asleep on his perch before the story’s ended.
Tonight, the doctor is working late. He dropped us off at the house and went back to the hospital. I’m in bed with the children on the second floor, in Malik’s room. There isn’t much of Malik in it, however. It’s a comfortable room with a warm wool blanket on the bed, a window where I can look out on the horse pasture, and a poster of four gore called the Beatles. Malik told me they’re musicians, and amazing. That, a year ago, they came to India to see their guru, which seems strange. The elders of our tribe are skeptical of gurus, whom they think of as false prophets.
Rekha and I are looking at a picture book that shows the different flowers of the Himalayas. Chullu has fallen asleep on his stomach, nestled against my side.
Squawk! “Namaste, bonjour, welcome!” Squawk!
I hear Madho Singh flapping his wings around the house, landing on a perch, screeching, then taking off again. This is not the way the parakeet greets visitors, so something has set him off. But what? An animal? A weasel or a monkey?
I try to remember if I locked the doors and windows, as the doctor is always telling me to do. (At the Aroras’, there was no lock on the door of the little room where we were staying.) Here on the second floor, we can leave the windows open for fresh air, but downstairs, we must lock every door and window tight. The neighboring houses are few and far between and tucked amid the pines, which means bandits are concealed from sight. Calling for help would be futile.