Climbing the Stairs Read online

  Kitta looked thoughtful. “Most people are like periappa,” he said. “Not that I’m trying to excuse him or anything. It’s not easy to be different, the way appa is. It is odd they’re brothers, though,” Kitta mused.

  I gave him a cheeky grin. “Actually, it isn’t strange at all,” I said. “I know why they’re so different. Periappa can’t really help it. He’s the older one, and as we all know, the second kid always gets the brains.”

  Kitta laughed. “Okay. You won that round.”

  I glowed, feeling pleased with myself. Kitta was far wittier than I was. It wasn’t often that he couldn’t think of a comeback.

  “Here’s something that’ll make you feel even better,” Kitta continued. “Periappa isn’t bringing periamma and Malati along.”

  I smiled, relieved that my aunt and cousin weren’t coming. Most of our cousins were male and much older than we were, but periappa had a daughter, Malati, who was a year older than I was and as unlike me as her father was from mine. She liked cooking and sewing and staying indoors to gossip with older women. “That really is something to be thankful for,” I said, cheering up again. “How long is he staying, do you know?”

  “Periappa arrives Saturday and leaves Sunday morning. Short trip,” Kitta said.

  “How come you know all that and I don’t know a thing?” I asked. “How come they always tell you every detail?”

  “Because I’m older and smarter,” he said, smirking.

  I soaked the rag in rice paste and threw it at him. He caught it deftly, wiping off the white spot that landed on his nose. “You’re going to smear the verandah with white drops instead of drawing a nice neat line of footprints.”

  “Why don’t you help me if you’re that concerned about how our verandah looks?” I asked.

  “I will, actually.” He got up and headed toward the house.

  Kitta should have been the girl in our family, I thought as he disappeared inside to fetch another rag. Kitta was always ready to help, he was hard to annoy, he rarely argued with anyone and he could see the bright side of any situation. Returning to the verandah, he crouched and started scraping off the mess I had made.

  Kitta and I worked quietly for a while side by side. My eyes fell on the kolam, the geometric pattern that our maid, Ponni, drew on the front steps every morning with rice flour. Today, in honor of the festival, she had made an elaborate swastika design.

  “Why do the Nazis wear our swastikas?” I wondered out loud. “I thought they didn’t like colored people.”

  “No idea why they took our religious symbol,” he said, following my gaze and staring at the kolam. “It doesn’t make sense.”

  I thought of the war. The British were fighting with three countries they called the Axis: Germany, Italy and Japan. Indians, technically subjects of the British crown, ought to have been on the side of the British. But I wasn’t certain if we were or not because Indians were busy struggling for freedom from British rule. Gandhiji, leader of the Indian National Congress Party, said we had to throw the British out without using violence. But it wasn’t clear what he or our other leaders felt about the British war with the Axis.

  “Kitta,” I said, “how come Gandhiji and the rest say we’re against Hitler but then tell us not to enlist in the British Indian Army? If we disagree with Hitler, then shouldn’t we be fighting him?”

  Kitta knitted his brows thoughtfully. “It’s a good question. I wonder about it a lot.”

  “So what do you think?”

  “I think it’s tough. We don’t like Hitler because he says his race is superior. But the British think they’re better than us, so we don’t like them either.”

  “Because the British think we can’t rule ourselves, you mean?” I asked. “Because they keep us out of first-class compartments in trains and that sort of thing?”

  “Exactly. The British think we’re uncivilized because we’re darker than they are. Hitler wants to rule over anybody and everybody, white, black and everything in between. So what’s the difference?” Kitta paused. “Plus the British didn’t even bother to ask Gandhiji’s opinion about the war. They just went off and ordered Indians to fight, like we’re their slaves or something.”

  “So why did we take part in that other big war, Kitta, the one the British and everyone fought in 1914 or whenever, when appa was young? How come we didn’t sit that one out?”

  “The British promised us freedom if we helped them then,” Kitta said.

  “They broke their word?”

  “Looks like they cheated us, doesn’t it?” Kitta said. “Here we are, still a colony, with whites-only signs all over the place.”

  I was silent. Appa always said Gandhiji was a great soul. That Indians were a peaceful people, that killing and wars went against our tradition of nonviolence, of ahimsa. We listened to news on the radio every night, and I knew what appa felt about our freedom struggle, but he never voiced opinions about the faraway war.

  My thoughts turned to appa’s disheveled appearance. “Kitta, did you see the stain on appa’s kurtha?”

  A pause.

  “Did you, Kitta?”

  “No,” he said unconvincingly.

  I sat back on my haunches and looked at him. He was kneeling, scraping hard at a spot that looked quite clean.

  “Something’s going on that everyone knows about except me,” I said.

  “Rubbish.”

  “Then look me in the eye and tell me you don’t know where appa was.” I had always been able to outstare Kitta.

  “I don’t know where appa goes,” he said. His eyes caught my fierce gaze fleetingly.

  “But you have an idea, don’t you?”

  “Maybe,” he mumbled.

  Amma chose that moment to interrupt us. “You’ve done a lovely job, Vidya. I’ve painted the footsteps indoors, so we’re finished. Why don’t you go in and change into a sari before we meet in the poojai room?”

  “Don’t you want the jamun fruit we collected?” I said, trying to procrastinate. I did want to see how amma had decorated our prayer room for the festive occasion, but more than anything, I wanted to find out how much Kitta knew about appa.

  “I’ll ask Ponni to collect the fruit. Now be a good girl, kanna, and get changed.”

  I sighed. Amma was calling me kanna again, a term of endearment usually reserved for a little child.

  Kitta sighed too, with relief that he had been able to wriggle out of my questioning.

  Krishna Jayanthi

  I went indoors, had a quick wash and carefully reapplied a red pottu in the center of my forehead, looking into the tiny mirror to make sure I drew the dot in the correct spot. Then I pulled out a maroon sari, buttoned my puff-sleeved blouse, slipped on my petticoat and called our maid, Ponni, to help me arrange the sari’s pleats.

  “You look nice,” Ponni said. I pursed my lips as I made my way into the sitting room, taking the mincing steps that my sari permitted. Half saris didn’t hamper me as much, but in a few years’ time I’d be too old to wrap myself in anything but a full six yards of cloth. I needed to practice.

  Kitta saw me almost trip over the sari’s flowing folds, and he choked over the cup of chai he was sipping. I stuck my tongue out at him. Amma didn’t notice, and she smiled approvingly at my effort, though still tight-lipped. I smiled back at her, wondering why she wasn’t as radiant as usual. Was she worried about periappa’s visit too? When he visited, it was a lot harder on her than on the rest of us. She had to wait on periappa hand and foot.

  Appa was breathing in the chai’s mingled scent of freshly crushed cardamom and strong black tea. I pulled up a wicker chair and sat down next to him.

  “Appa, where were you? Why aren’t you at the clinic every day?” I asked.

  Amma shook her head, as though to tell appa to stay silent.

  “Tell me?” I wheedled. “Please? I’m old enough to know. Does Kitta know?”

  Appa looked worn-out. He took a sip of the sweet, milky tea from his steaming cu
p. “I’m doing some new things. Volunteer work.”

  “Volunteer work?” I asked. “Why?”

  “I suppose you could say it makes me feel fulfilled,” he said.

  “Don’t we keep you feeling fulfilled?” I asked, hoping to coax him into saying more.

  He smiled but didn’t answer. “So what did you do in school today, Vidya?”

  I didn’t want to change the topic, but I couldn’t help chattering about school and volleyball and my best friend, Rifka. Rifka was Jewish, but other than that, she was like my twin sister. We were the same height, our hair was the same shade of black, we played the same sports, we laughed at the same things and we had even got our first period the same day, nearly a year ago. Kitta teased her as much as he teased me when she came over, and I bossed over her little brother just as much as she did.

  By the time I got through telling appa about my day, it was prayer time and Ponni was clearing away the remains of our tea.

  We gathered around the household altar in the poojai room, and amma’s voice rose in a Sanskrit chant. She poured oil into the old brass lamp and lit the wick. When the small flame began to dance, she placed a camphor cube on her handheld lamp and lit it with the flame. Pungent smoke curled into the air from the burning camphor and twirled together with the brown tendrils that were rising from the glowing incense sticks.

  I looked at the brightly colored picture of the blue God Krishna, the bronze image of Nataraja, lord of dance, and the sandalwood figurines of Lakshmi, the goddess of wealth, and Saraswathi, the goddess of learning. Amma offered the blessed food, the small plate with fruit, milk, curds and sweets, to each of us, beginning with me. The ritual was comforting, and by the time it was over, the spicy fragrance of the special Krishna Jayanthi feast wafted in from the kitchen and drove the worries about appa out of my mind.

  We didn’t talk much at dinner, enjoying the wonderful meal in silence. “You make the best dishes in the whole world,” I told amma after I finished.

  “The cook did most of it,” she said. “I just sprinkled the spices on at the very end.” But I could tell she was pleased. Unlike me, she enjoyed being the chef.

  After Ponni cleared the dishes, we sat together in the main hall. The Murphy radio crackled to life as appa twiddled the black knob, searching through the static for a spot where the sound was clearest. A crisp British accent entered the room. There wasn’t much news about the Indian freedom struggle. Instead, the voice droned on about the British prime minister, Churchill, meeting the president of America, Roosevelt. Apparently they had quite a good chat, and America agreed to help Britain and not the Nazis. But if it had been Churchill’s mission to get American troops to fight alongside his own, it sounded as though he had failed. The news broadcast ended with the sound of Big Ben, the huge London clock, sounding out the hour.

  Appa turned the Murphy off, and I yawned. Tomorrow was Friday, and I had to wake up early to be at school on time. But there was something I still needed to know before I went to bed.

  “Appa, you’re keeping secrets from me,” I said.

  “What secret do you think I am keeping?” he asked.

  Amma frowned.

  “Where do you go these days?” I asked appa. “What’s your new volunteer work all about?”

  Appa looked at me thoughtfully for a while and then said slowly, “You have a right to know. I’m helping our freedom fighters. I attend some of the nonviolent protests.”

  “Oh,” I said, taken aback that he’d confessed.

  Amma’s mouth was set in a thin line. I didn’t see what she was so unhappy about. She ought to be proud. My father was taking part in our freedom struggle!

  “So how come you told Kitta and not me?” I asked.

  “Kitta only knows because he asked before you did,” appa said. “Don’t think you can press charges against me for differential treatment.”

  “See,” Kitta said smugly. “I asked first. Always ahead of you, that’s me.”

  “None of that,” appa said to him firmly before I could think of a withering retort. “Now, shall we retire? Bedtime, I think.”

  I agreed, partly because I couldn’t think of how to tell appa that I admired him without it sounding silly.

  I lay in bed, the excitement keeping me awake. At school tomorrow, I’d tell Rifka what a hero my father was. She could be trusted with that secret for sure.

  Amma came into my room to turn out the light, looking more withdrawn than usual.

  “Amma,” I said. “Why do you look so worried?”

  “Do I look worried?” she asked evasively.

  “Yes,” I said. Maybe she had a lot left to do before periappa’s visit. “I’ll help you as soon as I get back from school tomorrow,” I offered. “I know you have to send the cook away and prepare all the meals yourself because periappa won’t eat anything that isn’t cooked by Brahmin hands.”

  Amma’s cheeks dimpled as she smiled. “Thank you, kanna. That’s sweet of you,” she said. “But you should finish your homework after school so you’ll be free the rest of the weekend. I’ll manage fine on my own. Periappa is only staying for a day.” Before I could ask anything else, she wished me good night and turned out the light.

  I sat up in bed, thoughts buzzing in my head like a mosquito. When I finally drifted off into a disturbed sleep, I dreamed that the red-brown stain on my father’s kurtha kept growing bigger and brighter.

  Rifka

  At school the next day, I couldn’t wait to tell Rifka all about appa. She came in late, after the morning assembly. I tried slipping her a note during our first lesson, but our teacher, Mrs. Batlivala, saw me scribbling and walked over to take a look.

  “What are you up to, Vidya?” she asked.

  “Sorry, ma’am,” I said.

  She glanced at the note but didn’t ask me to hand it over. She was the nicest teacher at school, and I felt guilty that I hadn’t been paying attention.

  “Ma’am, I won’t do it again,” I said earnestly.

  She let me off easily, as always. I tried hard to pay attention to her for the rest of the morning, but I couldn’t wait for the lunch bell to ring.

  Rifka and I found our favorite lunch spot—a concrete bench under the neem tree. I brushed off a fallen neem seed, sat beside her and pried open my tiffin box to see what I had for lunch: rice and lentils in the first compartment of the lunch box, curd rice in the second and four seedais in the third. Amma knew Rifka loved the sesame balls, and she must have put a few aside after yesterday’s feast.

  I handed Rifka a seedai. “My favorite,” she said, crunching into it happily. “Are you doing anything special this weekend?”

  I shook my head and sucked gently on the candied sesame seeds in my mouth.

  “Do you want to come home with me on Saturday?” she asked. “You haven’t been over for a while.”

  “I can’t,” I said, rolling my eyes. “Periappa is visiting.”

  “Your eldest uncle?” she asked sympathetically.

  “Yes, that one.”

  Rifka knew all about periappa. Every summer, we asked the old couple who lived in the flat that occupied the entire top floor of our two-story building to look after Raja. Our servants left for their annual holidays. Then we took the one-and-a-half-day train ride to Madras, the coastal city where my father’s family lived, because my father felt duty bound to visit them for at least a few weeks each year.

  My grandfather was fairly wealthy, but he lived the way Indians had lived for generations—under the same roof as his married sons. That was the tradition: the extended family stayed together. I didn’t get more than a glimpse of Kitta or appa in the summers because the men lived upstairs and the women lived downstairs in that house. There was just one room reserved for husbands and wives to sleep together, and the couples took turns spending nights in it. The only good thing about going to Madras every summer was that as soon as school started again, I could make Rifka laugh by telling her funny stories about appa’s family. r />
  “At least we don’t have to live with periappa all year,” I said, and tried to bring the conversation around to my father. “Thank goodness my father came to Bombay. That’s a blessing.”

  “Your father is so nice,” Rifka said.

  I smiled. “He is,” I agreed. “So can you keep a secret about him? A really big secret?”

  Rifka’s dark eyes widened at once. She loved secrets.

  “You can’t tell a soul,” I said seriously. “Not your mother, not your father, not your little brother. No one.”

  “I promise,” she said. I knew I could trust her.

  “This is really, really big,” I said, my voice dropping to a whisper.

  “Okay,” she whispered back.

  I took a quick look around us. The yard was empty. “My dad’s a freedom fighter,” I said.

  “A freedom fighter?” she gasped, gazing at me in awe. “Really?”

  “Would I lie about a thing like that?”

  “That’s fantastic,” she breathed. “Did he just join the freedom movement? What does he do? How long have you known?”

  “I just found out yesterday,” I told her. “He’s been away a lot these past weeks, so I pestered him a little about what he was up to, and he told me. I don’t know exactly where he goes or anything, but I’ll tell you if I find out.”

  “My best friend is the daughter of a freedom fighter,” Rifka said in a thrilled whisper. “I can’t believe it!”

  Her reaction had been every bit as satisfying as I’d hoped. “I have the best—” I was about to say I had the best family ever, but I caught myself in time. My family was very unusual, and I knew it, but she had a wonderful family too. “I have the best friend ever,” I finished, and we smiled at each other.

  The bell rang all too quickly, forcing us to return to class. Now Rifka was too excited to concentrate on the lesson. She knew she couldn’t ask questions about appa in the classroom, where anyone might overhear what she said, but she chattered on and on about all sorts of other things.