It’s December and the air is warm and heavy. The moisture tangles my hair and makes it frizzy, letting it poof as my long bangs stick to my face, wet from perspiration and dense air. It is supposed to be cool now, but papa told me that he read in the newspaper that the southwest monsoons were late, and it will be cooler in January when they have fully swept across the city, curving towards the Himalayas, until the wet and heavy winds would finally pass. Every morning before school, mummy conditions my hair with rich, creamy coconut hair oil and then she braids it, two long French braids. Mummy says she does this to keep my hair from tangling from the moisture in the air. I’d prefer to have just one braid though, the girls in higher standards always wear just one, with a beaded red or grey headband to match their uniform. Mummy says that when I am older I can braid it anyway I please. I wake up to hear mummy in the prayer room, singing the morning aarti and ringing the gold bell. She then lights the sandalwood scented incense, and when the smell penetrates the air enough for me to smell it in my room, I run to brush and shower. I usually rush at getting dressed, and mummy has to fix the pleats in my skirt and button up my shirt the right way afterwards. She doesn’t get mad though, because she knows I only rush so I can sit next to papa in the prayer room before he is finished meditating. He says ‘ohm’ in a deep voice, like the sage does at the temple, and I like to watch the way the Adam’s apple in his throat wobbles. Sometimes I giggle because it looks like it tickles, and his nose gets big at each breathe. Mummy, who sits next to me, mouths for me to stop. “Shh,” she says, but I see her crack a smile. She must think it tickles, too. I watch mummy, with her eyes closed and brown mala in her hands as she sings something softly. Mummy has smooth brown skin; the color of Cadbury chocolates Nani sends me in the mail. Mummy puts her hair up hair up in a bun and the coconut oil makes her hair look shiny, shiny like the onyx Ganesh idol in our kitchen. Papa’s hair is grey and he has small wrinkles near his eyes that make him look old, but wise. Mummy has seven wrinkles on her face, near her mouth and she says it’s because her papa was very funny and always made her laugh. When they both are finished they bow down to Krishna bhagwan and I follow, but I don’t giggle, because I know how important it is.

The idol of Krishna is beautiful with gold trimmed silk cloth and diamond jewelry. The idol was a gift to us from my Nani and Nana, mummy’s parents. I never met them, because they live far away, on the other side of India, and I know mummy misses them very much. She always tells me stories of her papa and mummy and her brother, my mama, all of whom I never met but still, always wish for a brother like mummy’s during Diwali prayers.  Mummy said they gave the idol to papa and his family when they, mummy and papa, started their new life together. She says his parents did not accept it, because papa loved mummy very much and papa’s parents did not believe in “love marriages,” so papa and mummy brought it with them to their new home. Now papa’s parents are kind to mummy and they live very close to us, behind the Calcutta hospital, which is right next to my school. Today mummy says they will pick me up from school, because mummy has to help dadi with some cooking. This morning, papa is on the phone, whispering angrily, his forehead scrunching, and I think, maybe on a business call. Mummy walks beside him to hand him his chai, but papa tells her no, he does not want chai this morning. Mummy touches his face and says cows must have learned to fly because papa would never leave the house without drinking tea. I giggle at this, and so does mummy and papa, who then has his chai after all. Papa tells mummy she does not need to help dadi with the cooking, and mummy looks at him confused, “She has finally warmed up to me, shabash- I am going, why would I make her more upset with me?” Mummy says this as she hands me the last chapatti to eat with my milk and I ask her what she will eat then. “Oh Anjali, if you are no longer hungry, then I am no longer hungry.” She winks at me and I feel upset inside that she will not be there to walk me home from school today. Mummy always lets me stop at Laxmi Park and we swing on the swings together. Sometimes she even stops at the bazaar and while she buys her vegetables from the stands for that evening’s dinner, she lets me buy the squeezed sugar cane juice from the cane stall. Mummy usually gets a length of sugar cane for herself too, peeled and chopped into a dozen pieces and she munches on each piece, one by one, chewing the juice intricately out of each one. Mummy says when I am older I will do the same thing, when she sees me make a funny face at her for doing so. This morning mummy sees that I am sad, and she says, “I know, I will miss you too, but tonight for dessert, I will let you have mango ice cream instead of ras malai.” I think of how much I despise the sweet milk and rice balls and of having the yummy mango ice cream instead and I think then that the walk home wont be so bad after all. “Chulo, it’s time to go to school. We are getting late!” Mummy grabs my metal lunch tin and red rucksack and she gives papa a quick kiss on the cheek. He grabs her hand and squeezes it and tells her not to go today. He tells her there is nazaar behind it and I think of the black dot mummy places behind my ear with kohl when she says I look very pretty to keep the nazaar away. “Shush, what bad omens are there when I am going to help my mother-in-law? She has that society meeting, Shanu, and needs to cook trays and trays of samosas–how can I not help her? Besides, my samosas will be a big hit and she will be proud to say her daughter-in-law made them.” Papa’s eyes are watery and he pats and kisses the top of my head. “Beti, tell your mother to stay home today,” he whispers and I wonder why papa is scared, like I am when he goes on business trips. Papa is on the phone again when we are leaving the house and his eyebrows turn down like he gets when I know he wants to be mad and scream, but papa never gets angry at anyone, even if he wants to.

Mummy says this morning we will have to take the fast path to school since I am almost late and my first school subject is French, and Madame Dalal will be very mad at me if I walk into her class late. ‘Pour quoi tu es tarde, Anjali?’ she will ask and she will make my face hot and my voice quiver. ‘Je suis desole’ I would say and she would correct my pronunciation. Mummy grabs my hand as we cross the street and swerve our way through the cars. Mummy says on Jay Street you have to be careful not to get run over, not only by cars, but also by street vendors and bicycles. As we finish crossing, I hear a scream and see an old man lying on the road next to a car screaming “Bachao! Help me!” I tug my mummy’s sari and she turns her head and tells me that he is just pretending, that beggars do this for the bribes they make drivers give them before the police come. She mutters something of how police require bribes as well. Mummy talks about Indira Gandhi and how she is changing everything with the Emergency Act, but I am too busy watching the old man to pay attention to mummy’s lesson. Mummy speeds up and pulls my hand as we cut through the alley between the dirty apartment shacks. Mummy says the poor filth of the city live here, as the rich filth of the city charge obscene rates for shacks that are made up of nothing but cow dung floors and flimsy walls. Mummy says soon ‘garibi hatao’ will prevail and I think of the elections before Indira Gandhi became our prime minister and everyone chanting it in the streets near the alley with all the paan stands. I see a girl in dirty white cloth that only covers her private parts splash water on herself from a spout. Her hair is not braided like mine, so it’s all tangled and stringy, knotting at the ends. She looks my age and I smile at her as we pass her. Another girl standing next to her says, “Rich kutis, get out of here!” I look down when I hear the curse word and the older woman they stand with slaps her on her arm and tells her to shut up. The older woman takes water from the same spout and drinks it. I see a line of people behind them, all holding buckets, and I ask mummy what they are waiting for. “Everyone does not have water all the time, beti. These people must fill up their buckets for water, because their spout only operates one time in the day.” I think of my tub full of water during my bath and remind myself not to use so much water anymore. “Why can’t we give them some of ours? We don’t use it all up…” Mummy says that I am very thoughtful, but it’s not that simple. What can be so hard about sharing? I think as we turn the corner. I turn around and say bye to the girl was not so mean and she sneaks me a wave. When we reach my school, mummy gives me my bag and my lunch tin and kisses me on the cheek. “Be good, I love you Anju…” I tell her that I love her and will miss her, because I know I really will. As I walk up the concrete steps, I see mummy waiting there, because she always stands right outside and waits at the steps until I am out of sight and she knows I will be safe in Madame Dalal’s classroom.

Dada did not come with dadi to pick me up from school. Dadi says that he is getting old and his bones are making it hard for him to walk. At least that’s what it sounds like she says; Dadi’s new teeth make it hard to understand what she says sometimes. I think it’s funny that dadi thinks bones can make it hard for someone to walk and I imagine someone without bones trying to walk, like human Jell-O, so I giggle at my thought. Dadi looks at me as if she is about to scold me, but she doesn’t and looks up at the new Anil Kapoor billboard ad. A girl in my class, Rupa, has a picture of Anil Kapoor in her notepad and she says that one day she will marry him. If mummy was with me, I would tell her about Rupa, but dadi wouldn’t like to hear it. Dadi takes the long way home, because she doesn’t know the shortcuts like mummy does, and I wonder why not if dadi has lived here longer than mummy. Mummy and papa moved near dadi and dada when I was only three years old, and dadi and dada wanted them to live in their house, but mummy said no. I like that mummy said no, because in dadi and dada’s house there would be no room for my dollhouse. When we finally get home, dada is waiting there for me in the big brown chair. He hugs me but I know he is watching his favorite serial and so I don’t disturb him, even though my cartoon is on and I would like to watch it. Dada smells like papa’s car smell and I wonder why if dada cannot drive. Dadi tells me mummy was cooking samosas all day and is cleaning up at their home so she will be back soon. I go to my room to do my homework, because I know when mummy comes she will ask me if I did it yet and I do not want to disappoint her.

Mummy comes right as I finish my multiplication worksheet. She tries to sneak behind me to hug me, but she doesn’t know I hear her tiptoeing and I turn around and scream, so she screams, and then we both start giggling. Mummy holds me and kisses the top of my head and so I press my head into her blue and saffron colored silk sari and I smell her jasmine talcum powder. I tell her I love her, but it sounds like ‘mumbi I ruv nyu’ as I am buried in the thick fabric of my mother. She mocks me and the we giggle again, but mummy looks at her watch and says “Oh no, go wash up, chulo. We mustn’t be late…” and I remembered that today is Monday and Monday is my piano lesson day. I take piano lessons from Geeta auntie, who lives in the flat next door. Geeta auntie used to be a music teacher at the Xavier School for Girls but she stopped teaching when Rajiv chacha passed away. Rajiv chacha is not papa’s real brother but papa said to call him chacha anyway, because he was just like a brother to him. Mummy says he passed away because he smoked too many cigarettes, which is why cigarettes are bad and I should never touch them. I tell mummy of some of the girls in higher standards who get in trouble for wearing their skirts too high up on their thighs and who smoke cigarettes behind the canteen. She says she knows I will never do that when I am older, because I am too smart for that. Geeta auntie calls mummy and says she will come get me, because she needs to borrow some chickpea flour so I wait in the kitchen for her to arrive as mummy starts to prepare dinner. She has white flour on her cheek and she is wearing her funny apron, the one with dancing cows on it. And she looks peaceful, my mummy, as she hums an old Hindi film song while rolling dough for her perfect rotis. The steel pots start steaming with masala scents that fill my nostrils as mummy’s spinach and okra soak up her special flavor. Papa calls mummy on the phone and she tells me that he tells her not to cook, that he will bring home dinner from the Oberoi and mummy says, “What is the special occasion? You have not even made me mad today.” I tell mummy to tell papa to bring the paneer they make especially for me, but mummy says, ‘Hush what will happen to the food on the stove? Besides dadi and dada would not like food from a restaurant, they have stayed for dinner today.‘ Mummy twirls the phone wire and she is smiling as she whispers to papa before she hangs up because Geeta auntie arrives.

As we leave to go to my lesson, Geeta auntie tells me she is thinking of teaching again, now that Indira Gandhi is making education free for all girls, more schools for girls will open up and the demand for teachers will rise. I think of the girls in the alley and am happy they will get to go to school now too. I tell Geeta auntie about them and she tells me I am sweet just like my mummy and this makes me feel proud.

When my lesson ends, my stomach is growling and run home to eat mummy’s dinner as quickly as I can, so I can have the mango ice cream afterwards. Dadi and dada are standing outside and there are policemen everywhere. “Dada?” he looks at me and then stands in front of dadi who is giving money to the policeman. It must be a bribe, because mummy said policemen need bribes. Dada puts his arm around my shoulder and we both walk towards the policeman’s black car. “Anju, beti, something very sad has happened…” he looks at me like it is hurting him to talk and I hope it is not hurting him because he can’t walk with his bones. “Mummy had an accident in the kitchen, she was cooking and she was burned very badly…” I think of the time mummy burned her finger when she took the chicken tikka out of the oven. “Where did she get burned, dada?” Dada tells me mummy has been burned everywhere and might not come home for a long, long time. That someone else would take care of me now. When dada says this, it hurts me in my chest, and it feels like I want to cry. How long, dada? Who else? I want to say, but the words get stuck in my throat and dada hugs me because he sees the first tear fall. Dada tells me papa is in the hospital with mummy and asks me if I want to go there. I shake my head up and down and he tells the policeman that he should take us the Calcutta hospital. The policeman agrees and I understand then, why dadi gives him the bribe, he would take us to go see mummy.

When we get to the hospital we walk through the big emergency doors and we have to pass the outpatients department where we see the sick children wrapped up in blankets on the floor with what dada says are saline drips propped up against the gloomy, off-white walls.  The tubes cast frightening shadows on the wall that form patterns and looked like screaming ghosts from scary movies I am not allowed to watch. As dadi talks to the woman at the front desk, I build up enough courage to get a closer look at the children wrapped up like little dolls on the floor. That is what they look like, like my doll collection on my shelf in my bedroom. I notice that so many of the sick children are girls, almost all of them are girls like me and I see one girl who is crying in the corner. I pull on dada’s white lengha shirt and he pats my head. I want to tell him to help the girl who is crying, but before I can say anything dada takes my hand and we quickly walk through the big doors that take us away from them and I watch her, the crying girl, until the doors shut and I can no longer see her anymore. When we get to mummy’s room, papa comes over to me and he holds my hands. “Anju…” he tries to tell me something but his tears come and then I feel mine coming too, but I hold it inside because on the way to the hospital, in the police car, dada tells me to be strong for my papa, that mummy would want me to do the same thing. “Come beti…” Papa takes me inside the room, which is dark and there are no windows. I think of how much mummy likes windows and sunlight and I feel sad that she has to say in such a gloomy room. Mummy is covered in white bandages all over…”Mummy?” but she doesn’t answer me. I want papa and dadi and dada to leave me there with mummy, so I can hug her and we can giggle together like we did earlier today. I ask papa if I can hug her and he says no, but you can take her hand. Here, hold her hand, and he gives me her hand to hold which feels cold and there are bandages on her thumb and wrist. Papa looks at dadi and dada fiercely, with his forehead crinkled like he had in the morning.

Suddenly there is a beeping sound and the machine next to mummy starts blinking its red and yellow lights like an ambulance. The nurse runs over. Her safety pins that hang off her gold bangle clink together as her heels hit the floor. She is thin and her dark brown skin holds the yellow fluorescent light’s reflection. It is smooth like my mummy’s skin and when she sees me, she tells papa to take me outside. No, no I want to stay, but papa says we must listen to the nurse if we want mummy to get better. We sit on the orange chairs right outside mummy’s room and papa asks me if I want anything from the canteen. “Some mango ice cream, beti?” And I start to cry, because I remember mummy’s special dessert for me before she got burned. Papa hugs me then, but I just want mummy to hug me and it makes me cry more. Dada comes to me then and I remember what he said about being strong, and I try to keep the tears in my eyes, but they keep falling anyway and my nose gets stuffy even if I tell it not too. The nurse comes outside and papa, dada and dadi go to talk to her. They tell me to stay there so I do and I hear two other nurses talking as they fold yellow towels on a big cart.

“What a shame, she even has a small girl.”

“They probably bribed the police too, like it was an accident–I’ve seen this before…but never with a small girl like this…”

“How, won’t her family have evidence? The soiled sari? Her husband seems like he wasn’t in on it anyway…”

“No, no, the sari burns with the rest of her and besides the doctor asked if her family will be coming and they are from far. Her husband? Did you see that man? He is weak, no, you know, what I mean…”

“This makes the other nurse laugh and they both shake their head.

“And for dowry’s sake–so late, what a shame. They probably have another girl lined up for him…”

“With the Dowry Act amended…”

They start to wheel their cart away and I wonder what small girl the two nurses are talking about and I think how her mummy must be hurt also, like mine, but my mummy was in a terrible accident.

Papa comes over to me and says, “Chulo beti, we must go now, visiting hours are over and mummy needs her rest….” His eyes water and he continues to say, “So she can get better…” When will mummy come home? Papa says he does not know, but she will need to stay because she is not better. The nurse with the gold bangles watches me and tears fall down her face. Papa takes me to mummy’s room to say bye and so I say good night and kiss her cold hand. The machines are quiet now and dadi and dada stand at the door and I watch them look down at the ground as the nurse puts a sheet over mummy’s head. Probably to keep her face from getting colder, I think. When we leave the room, the same nurse gives me a purple lollipop. “Here beti, please have this…” She gives it to me as she wipes tears from her face and I say, “Thank you very much” even though I hate grape flavored lollipops.

We leave through the outpatients department again and I look to see if the girl in the corner is still crying, but all the girls have gone to sleep now and so as papa talks to the woman at the front desk, I slip away from dada’s grip and walk over to the girl. She doesn’t open her eyes and I think she must be tired from crying, so I put the lollipop next to her, thinking, maybe she likes grape. Dada calls for me and I run towards him without turning around as I skip through the exit door with dada and dadi beside me.

As we walk home, everyone is quiet and I tell papa that I feel cold. “It is getting chilly. The monsoons must be finally passing us.” I think of the Himalayas, like papa told me before, but hear mummy saying, ‘where earth meets the sky’ when papa speaks of the great mountains. I feel cold again, but it is because I think of mummy’s cold hand.

When we return home, papa is angry like I have never seen him and yells at dadi to stop cleaning. I won’t marry her he screams and I get scared at seeing papa turn so red. What is papa talking about? I long for mummy to be there to give me the answer. Everything smells burnt and dadi starts to clean the black marks and dusk all over the kitchen. I see a piece of bluish cloth from mummy’s favorite sari stuck to the side of the stove and when dadi isn’t looking, I take it and run up to my room. I smell it to smell mummy’s jasmine talcum powder but it smells like the gasoline from papa’s car. It has brownish stains on it too like mummy spilled something on herself. I tuck it under my pillowcase and set up my comb and coconut hair oil on my table. Mummy will surely be back tomorrow morning to braid my hair and pleat my skirt, I think as I lay my head down to dream of my new day with mummy.

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