asked Suraj. “Please?”
Shiv thought for a moment, staring out the window.
“The fields will be flooded today. If the rain stops, I’ll take you both,” he said, nodding in their direction. “Come sit down. I’m sure Mother will not mind making tea for all of us this morning.”
He patted the floor next to him. Kali glared at him but said nothing. She turned to the fire, her lips set in thin lines.
She will make us pay for this tomorrow, thought Tara. Kali is not one to let any show of insubordination go unpunished. But we won’t be here, she thought to herself, and she smiled.
Her mind was busy with plans for the escape. While Shiv, Kali, and Layla finished their morning tea, Suraj and Tara excused themselves and went to the wooden cupboard in the front room. They rummaged through their belongings and clothes, smiling at each other whenever their eyes met.
“We’ll both need an extra pair of shoes; these ones are falling to pieces. We’ll need a couple of extra blankets, and reed mats to put on the ground when it rains.” The list was endless and Tara was starting to think they would never be able to carry it all, Suraj was so thin and weak.
Tara searched for their warm clothes and her palm connected with something very soft. She pulled it out. It was her mother’s favourite sky-blue kurta — the only piece of clothing left of her in the house. Had Kali found it, it too would have been burned with the rest of Parvati’s clothes. Tara clutched it to her face, inhaling deeply. She was sure she could still get a faint whiff of the sweet lemony fragrance of the chameli flower. Suraj stepped closer as Tara held out the bunched-up garment to him. He buried his face in it and clutched her hand. For a moment, they felt that their mother was right there, embracing them.
“Tara, come here and clean up,” hollered Kali.
Tara started. She was about to hide the kurta again when she heard a crackle. She scrunched up the kurta and heard it again.
“What is that sound, Didi?”
“Maybe a note Mother left us?” said Tara.
Her hands shook as she scrabbled through the left pocket, then the right, and extracted a ten-rupee note.
Suraj’s eyes widened. He had never seen so much money.
“Ohhhhh,” he breathed
“Thank you, Mother,” said Tara in a soft whisper. “Don’t tell anyone, Suraj.”
She tucked the money into the pocket of her kurta and went back into the kitchen. There was a mess, as usual. Without stopping to acknowledge the annoyance and sense of injustice that rose in her whenever she had to clean up her stepmother’s mess, she got to work.
Their father stepped out the back door to wash up. The rain had stopped and the sky had lightened to a smiling blue. A fresh breeze stirred the branches of the peepul trees lining the road and hundreds of droplets of water fell to the wet ground. Tara gazed out the back door. As far as the eye could see, vivid green trees swayed joyfully with their arms outstretched. All the dust and dirt had been washed away and the smell of damp earth wafted in.
“Hurry up, Tara, it’s almost midday,” said Shiv.
“Can I come too?” asked Layla.
“Hmmmm,” said Shiv, and he stepped outside to smoke a beedi while he waited for his family to get ready.
Soon the kitchen was clean and the house tidy. The family walked toward the market. On holidays, the farmers and their wives congregated under the large peepul trees with their baskets of fruits and vegetables. The men smoked beedis, lamented about the weather and the state of their crops. The wives gossiped, admired each other’s clothes, or swapped homemade cures.
The air was cold and clean and Tara inhaled deeply. In the distance, the Shivalik Hills towered over the village. Their tops were covered in clouds through which the sun peeped cautiously, as if playing hide and seek. Tara and Suraj walked hand in hand a little ahead of Shiv, Kali, and Layla. Tara looked up at the hills, and the lush green of the forest that covered the slopes. They looked dark and forbidding. Tomorrow, Suraj and she would be fighting their way through it.
“Mother, buy me some red bangles, please? I don’t have any and my best friend has so many,” pleaded Layla as they neared the market. Already there were a number of families milling around, enjoying the cool weather and the companionship.
“We’re going to look around, Father,” said Tara. “We’ll meet you later at the bangle shop.”
Her father nodded, not even looking in their direction. Tara felt a stab of hurt, which passed quickly.
Tara pulled Suraj in the direction of the cobbler.
“We both need a pair of waterproof shoes,” said Tara.
She set off at a quick trot to the village cobbler on the far side of the market square, Suraj in tow. The cobbler’s shop was a small, dingy hovel. There were mounds of shoes and chappals covering every inch of the floor except for the path that led from the door to the raised platform where he sat, like an impoverished king amidst his subjects. Footwear hung from hooks on the wall in every shade of brown and black, stitched with coloured embroidery. Other shoes sat patiently on shelves, covered with dust. A strong smell of uncured leather and glue hung about the room.
Occasionally a black furry ball moved in the depths of the shadows in the corners. The first time Tara had seen a movement she had screamed. Then she had realized what it was: big black rats that had made their home in the shop.
The cobbler sat in his workplace in one of the corners, thin and bent over, a posture acquired through years of hunching over the anvil. A grimy lantern hung from a cobweb-encrusted rope over the platform and threw feeble light on the shoe that he was repairing.
A woman balanced on one foot, her bare foot resting on the shoe-clad one, waiting for the shoe to be repaired. Tara decided to let her leave before approaching the cobbler. While they waited, she examined the mojdis and other types of shoes on display that were suited for all weather conditions in the mountains.
“Look here, Suraj, these shoes look sturdy. This one would fit me and that one looks just about right for you.”
“They’re too big,” he said with a giggle.
“Don’t worry; you can wear two pairs of socks. They’ll be snug. We don’t have time to get them made to order.”
Fidgeting impatiently, Tara and Suraj anxiously peered out to check if Kali or Layla had seen them enter the shop. They were safe. There was no sign of their family. Finally, the woman departed. Tara stepped up to the cobbler before anyone else walked in.
“Baba,” said Tara, addressing the older man with respect, “we would like to buy these shoes.” She held out two sturdy pairs. They were made of dark brown leather with a pointed tip.
The cobbler looked up from his work and peered short-sightedly through glasses as thick as Tara’s little finger. He stood up on the little platform and came toward them. Tara noted his shabby kurta and pyjama, which were patched up neatly with different bits of cloth and leather, like a colourful patchwork quilt. On his feet were a new pair of mojris. Tara smiled. He may not have been able to afford good clothes but his shoes were
