New Delhi
1996
*****
Today is a very good day.
I found some old tyre down by the bottom of the heap and it's just what I needed to mend my sandal. That alone would have made it a good day, but what makes it a VERY good day is that I found a picture too. And not just any old picture, it was a picture with the princess from mama's story.
It was so wonderful to finally meet her that I couldn't do much more than stare. The picture has a stain down one side, but I can't understand why anyone has thrown it on the rubbish heap. To have a picture of the Princess is a treasure beyond words.
It's really too big to carry alone, but somehow, I dragged it all the way home and propped it on the wall of our hut. As I fixed the hole in my sandal I tried to remember every word of the story, but it's hard without mama to tell me. It's been such a long time since I heard the story, so I just hope the Princess forgives me if I forget anything. In fact, I'm so caught up in my Princess that I almost forget my chores and I have to rush quickly to complete them, so that by the time papa comes home for dinner I've swept the floor and cooked the rice.
You can hear papa before he arrives. Swish, clunk. Swish, clunk. All the way up the road. Sometimes in the afternoon when the sun is high, I lie down away from the dust and the heat because if you're very hungry and it's too hot, a short sleep can help.
Then sometimes I'm just drifting off and I think I hear it. Swish, clunk. But it's not usually Papa, it's just the sun playing tricks on my mind, as Mama would say.
Papa sometimes comes home to eat a midday meal with me, otherwise I don't see him until long after the sun has gone down. I don't like those days because I can't eat until he comes home and I get so hungry it feels like my stomach is scraping my spine.
But now it's not even midday and there is it. Swish, clunk. I knew today was a good day.
The patched up heel of my sandal is higher than the other side, and it digs annoyingly into the bottom of my foot. By the time it's worn down enough to be comfortable, it will be time to patch the other shoe, so in that sense there is no winning and one side of you is always higher than the other. Mama always said that in this way, at least one side of you is closer to heaven, so it's best not to complain. And so I don't, I just half hop across the room to stick my head out of the hut and look for papa.
There he is. His cart swings from side to side. Last year a wheel cracked in half and the only one we could find on the heap a bit too big, so his cart is lopsided now. Papa walks with a limp and now that his cart his lopsided, I think it matches him better. He swish, clunks right up the road.
There are things on papas cart that have been there since I can remember. There's a pan with a hole burnt into the bottom that hangs at the front and a book with many pages torn out. The cover is sun bleached and it has sat proudly on top of the cart for years.
Mama told me that there was time that Papa was the only one who sold things in this area and people would come to him saying "Hey Prakash! If you can find me a stove, I'll be forever grateful!" Or "Prakash, my daughter is getting married, she needs things for her home. See what you can find and give me a good price."
Now Papa isn't the only one who has a cart and searches the rubbish heap. I have to get up earlier and earlier to get there before the other boys. Just last week a much bigger boy slapped me around the face as he took a pair of sandals I had found.
Oh now, if I think about this I am going to ruin my good day.
Papas cart stops with a jangle and heaves a great sigh and stretches as far as his curved back will allow. He doesn't speak as he sits heavily down next to me, squinting in the sunlight.
This is my signal. I make tea as quickly as I can and arrange his rice and chapatti on his tin plate. He nods in a gesture that I know means to thank me and begins to eat.
I keep glancing at him as we eat. Papas face is folded into hundreds of tiny lines. His skin reminds of a piece of paper that has been squashed into a ball and then loosely smoothed out again and every time he opens his mouth to allow food in, the lines shift and crease together.
I don't think it's nice to think such thoughts about your papas skin, even if it is very lined, so I glance back at the hut. It looks cooler inside but we can't sit in there because Papas cart could get stolen. Every night we have to unload everything and carry it into the hut and when we've done it, there's almost no room for us.
Mama used to laugh and say that Papa had to be careful not to pick me up and sell me by accident. Even Papa used to smile and Mama would tickle my stomach.
Papa is drinking his tea as I watch him. There's a fly buzzing around him and he flicks it in irritation.
I wonder if he misses Mama as much as I do. The days are much longer without her, she used to tell me stories about princesses and Jinn and the queen who lives in the palace made of stars. And she would cook and sweep the floor and come with me to find things for Papa to sell on the rubbish heap. It was easier to carry and no one would ever take the things I found when Mama was with me.
Sometimes when the day seems longer than normal, I try to remember my favourite story, the one about the princess with the stars in her hair and the prince who rode across the night sky to find her, but just lately I can't remember the story properly and it makes me sad. I feel like part of Mama is leaving me forever. But then she sends me something, some sign, like the picture today, to make sure I know she is still there.
"What did you find today, Rakesh?" Papa places his cup down slowly and looks over at me.
"I found some tyre-"
"Good boy." Papa doesn't smile when he says good boy, but I know he's happy. Everybody in the world needs to mend their sandals sometimes and old tyre is easy to sell to people who don't live near the rubbish heap.
"I found a sandal and a picture."
"What kind of picture?"
Papa waits as I run back into the hut to get the picture. As I bring it out, his eyes widen slightly.
"You found this at the heap?"
"Yes, Papa."
"It looks almost new." He reaches to take it from me and for a fleeting second I want to snatch it away. I let him take it from me and watch as he examines it, but I know that if I don't speak now then I'll lose the picture forever.
"I... I thought we could keep it, Papa." My voice sounds higher than usual and I feel a jolt as Papas eyes fix upon me.
"Keep it?" He says in surprise. "Why?"
"Because... Because the girl looks like the princess with the stars in her hair from the story-"
"You're too old for children's stories Rakesh!" Papa sounds angry and I should take the warning, but the picture is from Mama and I don't want to lose it. Maybe if we can keep the picture, Papa will see it every day and he will be happy to think of Mama and the Princess with Stars in her hair.
"But Papa, please. I don't think you can be too old for stories. Mama was a lot older than me and she still loved stories."
I know I've crossed the line. We are not allowed to talk about Mama and now that I've mentioned her, Papa is angry and he won't let me keep the Princess with stars in her hair.
"Do you think this is easy, Rakesh?" Papa waves his hand angrily towards his cart. "Do you think I do this for fun? Do you think it's easy to walk miles everyday for a few rupees? Now you're wanting to keep the few things we find so that you can dream up your little stories? Tell me, Rakesh, tell me what good are stories for putting food in your stomach? What good are stories for getting through the day?"
"Papa, I'm sorry." I can feel shame sweeping through me for my childishness.
"If you're going to lie here all day dreaming up stories then how are we to live?"
"Please, Papa. I was foolish. It's just... It's just that it reminded me of Mama. I'm sorry."
Papa doesn't say anything for a moment as he studies me. Finally he shakes his head and pushes his fingers into his hair. A small amount of dust rises up as he pats the top of his head. He doesn't look at me again as he adds the new treasures to his cart. I watch as he swish clunks up the road again and my eyes are on the beautiful lady with stars in her hair. It will be very easy to sell the picture.
I feel like a baby for crying. Papa doesn't cry.
Even when Mama died Papa didn't cry. I can't help but glance to the corner of the hut, the corner where it happened. Mama and the baby were both sick and Papa held her in his arms and prayed and prayed all night.
Neither mama or the baby ever woke up and when they took her away Papa laid down on the floor where she had been and stared at the wall. He didn't move for two days and I only dared approach him when the hunger in my stomach was stabbing me. Papa stood up, packed his cart and ever since then we are not allowed to talk about Mama.
I don't understand. I thought Papa loved Mama but now he wants to pretend she never even lived.
I want to cry because I lost the picture Mama sent me as a gift, but crying won't help. I'm being ungrateful, mama sent the picture to remind of the wonderful story. She never said that I could keep it, maybe the gift was to remind us of the story and bring us some money.
I go back the rubbish heap and spend the rest of the day looking for things to take home. I can't take too much because if I do, someone will steal if from the hut, so I can only choose the most important things and take them in one journey. But although I find some treasures, like a green bottle, a red blanket, a small basket, the whole time I am trying to remember the story of the girl with stars in her hair.
There isn't much chapatti. I boil some dal because that's all there is left. At least Papa will be able to buy something nice to eat with the money from the picture, but I would have skipped two or even three meals to keep it.
Papa is late tonight. I'm hungry so I pull a tiny corner from the chapatti. I try to chew it slowly but it just whets my appetite and so I tear another small piece. It is strange how just a few small pieces add up to a whole and before I know it, I have eaten it all. It doesn't sit comfortably in my stomach, because now I feel sick. Papa has been at work all day, and I have stolen his food. All he has to eat after a full day walking on his aching leg is a little dal and rice.
I am so bad, Papa will be hungry because I am so selfish. I can feel tears prickling at my eyelids. I am still hungry, after stealing from my papa I am still hungry. I hope papa sold the picture, if he sold it, I will run straight away to the chana stall and buy him a cone of salted chana. And I won't complain, or try to eat even one bite of his chana, because I have been so bad.
I sit in the doorway, drawing patterns in the mud with my finger. Papa will need me to help him carry the cart inside. His leg hurts him so badly after a day of walking that sometimes he cannot do anything more than sit painfully while I carry everything inside for him. I don't know why he is so late tonight. The hours are dragging by, but there is no sign of him.
*
It's very late when I open my eyes.
At first, I forget everything, but it's only when I turn and see Papas curved back in the candle light that I jump upright.
Papa is curved over his plate, mindlessly using his right hand to press rice and dal into this mouth. Usually the candle light means that papa thinks we have enough money for today so we can spare money for candles, but I instantly remember his chapati and the terrible thing I have done.
It's not until I sit up that I see it. There, propped in the corner, is the picture of the Princess with stars in her hair.
"Papa!" I gasp. He jumps, sniffing as he twists his curved spine towards me.
"Rakesh! Why are you shouting?" He scowls. "Do you want to attract every wild dog and robber to our hut?"
"Forgive me." I crawl forwards slightly, rubbing my finger on my sleeve before tracing the Princess' face. The little stain blots some of her dress, but she's still so beautiful.
"Don't touch it, your hands are filthy." Papa grunts.
"I'm sorry." I pull my eyes unwillingly away from the princess. "Did no one want to buy her?"
"Many people wished to buy her." He mutters.
"Then why...?"
Papa waves away my question. As I glance round, I can see that he brought in the cart and every thing on it by himself.
"Is there any chapatti?" He asks suddenly.
"Papa," I stare at the ground, shamefaced, "I-"
"You were hungry."
"I'm sorry." My stomach feels like there is a serpent inside, twisting around and I wonder if that can happen, if you do something really bad like steal your Papa's food when he has been working all day.
"It doesn't matter." Papa shifts his leg and a grunt of discomfort leaves his lips. "I'm sorry I was back so late."
"You can have my share of rice and dal-"
"Come here." Papa waits for me to shuffle closer before pressing a tin bowl into my hands. Inside is my portion of rice and dal. I don't want it but Papa insists gruffly and I'm still just as hungry as I was before I ate the chapatti. The first bite is delicious. The salty, spicy dal spreads across my mouth and warms my all the way to my stomach, but I can't shake the feeling that I don't deserve such luxury.
"I'm sorry Papa." I say again.
"No, I'm sorry that you were hungry Rakesh."
Papa sounds so weary that the serpent in my stomach twists again and I wish more than ever that mama was here to cheer him up. Mama always knew what to say, she could find the right words with ease, like plucking fruit off a tree.
"Maybe tomorrow when you sell the picture..."
"I am not going to sell the picture, Rakesh."
"But you said that many people wished to buy it! Surely you could get a good price!"
"I could sell the picture, it is true. And I would get enough money to feed you for a few days, it would be a few days without worry. But then..."
"Then?"
Papa hesitates and raises his eyes to my face. The candlelight flickers odd hollows in his cheeks and his eyes look black and deep, like the jet jewels on the princesses crown. Papa gazes at me for a moment, then suddenly leans back and places his hand over his face. He looks so tired and old that I fear he may be sick.
"Rakesh, do you remember the story of the Princess with stars in her hair?"
"A bit of it, I was trying to remember..." I stop, wondering if Papa will be angry with me for trying to remember the story after what he said earlier.
"I will tell you the story."
I stare at him in astonishment.
"You?!"
"What's wrong with me?" He scowls. "Do you wish to hear the story or not?"
"Of course! I just didn't realise that..."
"That I could tell a story?" To my surprise Papa's creased face lifts into a rueful smile. "I was not always a grumpy old man, Rakesh. Do you think your mother would have married a man who scowls so much?"
"Yes, because you are a good man, even when you scowl. You are just trying to do your best for me."
Papa doesn't answer, he just looks at the picture for a long while. I decide to clear away the tin bowls, but I'm just reaching for them when Papa stops me. To my horror, I can see that he looks sad, almost as if he is about to cry.
"Earlier on today as I was about to sell this picture, I imagined what your mama would say. How she would scold me for stealing your dreams. I must ask your forgiveness, Rakesh, because although I do my best to feed your body, you are neglected in many other ways."
I don't know what to say to this, but Papa nods. He seems to understand that sometimes the words get stuck inside you. I want to tell him that I appreciate how hard he works for us and although I miss terribly the warmth of mama's embraces and stories, I know that it's not his way of showing affection. The words won't come though.
Papa sucks in a painful breath as he shifts around, positioning himself so that the picture is directly in front of him, illuminated beautifully by the flickering candle and we sit with a little space between us. There seems to be a million important words buzzing around our little hut. They fill the air between us, but neither of us open our mouths to allow them a voice.
Papa coughs slightly and looks around the hut, at the cart and all of the things he sells. Finally he turns to me.
"You must look at the picture, Rakesh."
My heart swells with happiness as I look at the beautiful picture. Papa's quiet voice cuts gently through the air towards me, wrapping me up like the warmest, most familiar hug I have ever had.
"Once upon a time, there was a beautiful princess with stars in her hair..."
I knew today was a good day.