“Yes, Maanvi, what is it?” The mender folds his hands, looking at the now silent crowd as if hoping to glean a silent answer from them as to what is happening.
“There is a woman that needs looking to. No-no”—she motions him to stay as the mender moves closer—“sit and finish your meal. After. Her daughter is here, and sad shape that one’s in. I’ve been good to you, and Brahm Himself knows—”
The mender clasps his hands together tight. “Yes-yes, Maanvi. Brahm knows it. I’ve never said anything otherwise. You want me to look in on this woman, I’ll do so.”
She doesn’t waste time listening to another word, rounding instead to face the other side of the shop. “Where’s Sneha, hm? You’re always in here on a cold one like today. Always with the order of thori with extra butter, and a good hot soup. Hm, where are you—stand-stand!”
A woman rises at the snap of a call. She is dark of eye and of hair. A long braid hangs to her waist, drawing my eye.
And I might nurse the overpowering urge to give it a good batting, but there are more pressing matters at hand.
…perhaps later, though.
“What is it, Maanvi?” Sneha adopts a similar gaze to the mender from earlier, looking as if she expects trouble and an equal chastisement.
“You and your father are doing slow business this set, no?”
Sneha shrinks but inclines her head. “Yes…but that doesn’t mean I cannot pay. I have—”
Maanvi waves her off. “So you and your father have spare rooms—warm ones, all open for the taking, hm?” The way she asks the question makes it clear she knows the answer.
Sneha licks her lips and bows once again. “Yes, Maanvi. We have many spares. But why?”
Another heavy wave of a hand. “Never you mind that. How many times have I brought your father a hot bowl, in the cold, no less? At no charge, because I know how late he works tallying ledgers, and tending to travelers—some of whom have less manners than they have coin, trying to skimp you lot on a debt. How many times, girl?
“No, don’t answer. Finish your food, then you and Mender-sahm will come with me, ji-ah?” Maanvi’s tone makes it all-too clear that will accept a singular response.
“Ji,” says Sneha.
And it is as simple as that. The shape of Sarika’s future seems to brighten—to clear. But she doesn’t know it yet, and it is a poor thing to keep a surprise from someone for too long.
So, I leave, making my way back to the young girl in the kitchen.
Her lips now bear the marks of meat juices as much as a mulled fruit beverage. “Hello, cat. Where did you go?” She smiles and bends to brush my head.
The amount of touch I have received might be more than any of my kind has had to bear in so short of time. The many sufferances a cat must endure in our duty to look out for humans. Though it certainly wears after a while.
But I am ever the model of patience and dignified.
That will be enough, little one. You may stop now. “Mawow.” I smack a hand to hers, moving it away.
It isn’t long before Maanvi returns, interrupting the conversation I wish to have myself with the girl. “Are you done? How was it?”
Sarika beams. “It was good. Thank you. But…I told you, I can’t pay. Mama and I don’t have—”
Maanvi shakes her head and lets out a heavy sigh. “And I told you, little one, I didn’t ask. Next time, clear the oil from your ears, ji-ah?” But she says this with no malice, only a wide smile. “Now, we are going to wait a little bit while some customers finish their food, understand? Then I want you to take us to see your mama.”
Sarika frowns, the old urchin’s worry plain across her face again.
This is where I must intervene and play the cat’s part. I move and bump the whole of my mass against her leg, rubbing hard against her in what I know will take her attention and give her comfort.
And it works. Sarika does not reject the offer. Instead, she smiles.
We return to the snow-swept streets of Ghal, now with a group tight to our sides. Maanvi, the shopkeeper. Sneha, the attendee of her father’s inn, and the mender, Katar-sahm. Sarika leads the way through the winding streets back to the hovel in which her mother lays.
“Oh, Brahm’s blood.” The curse leaves the mender’s mouth before he realizes he has spoken.
Maanvi rounds on him, slapping a meaty hand to his chest. “Oi, no speaking of Brahm like that. Not in front of the girl.”
The mender’s eyes widen. “Of course, Maanvi. Right. Let me go have a look at the girl’s mother.” Mender Katar rushes off to do just that. A leather satchel rests in his grip and he lays it flat near where Sarika’s mama rests.
The elderly and ill woman raises her head to regard the man peering down at her, but he gently hushes her. “I’m a mender—studied at the Ashram many years ago. I’m here to tend to you.”
Sarika edges closer, but Maanvi’s hand stays her. “Let the man work, ji-ah? Katar-sahm’s mind might wander at times, but he has a good head for his work. He will see to your mama.” Her tone brooked no room for argument.
The little girl bows her head, accepting the elder’s wisdom, but she continues to watch with the quiet worry of a child.
I brush against her once again, offering my steady and reassuring presence.
After all, there are few things that cannot be made better by the intervention of a cat. And none that cannot be improved if that cat just so happens to be me. But, alas, not all can be blessed to have myself as their watcher.
Such is the way of things.
“How long do you think you can house the girl and her mother, Sneha—no dickering, ji-ah? Just give me the answers. And, if it will cost?”
The young attendant shakes her head. “No-no, Maanvi. We can at least keep them for a set comfortably. But food and—”
Maanvi dismisses her. “T’ch. Food. I can do that well enough myself, and you see if I can’t. I need them warm and safe. Once her mother is—”
Sarika pulls on a length of the shopkeeper’s robe. “What do you mean? What do you want to do with mama and me?” Her mouth pulls into a frown that wishes not to betray what she is feeling within.
But I can see it plain enough. A deeper dread that comes with uncertainty, and now it involves her mother. That is not something Sarika can bear to have go wrong. Not after everything she has endured. And so she keeps to silent hope that things will be all right.
It will be all right, child. “Mrawow.” I put a paw to one of her legs, pressing hard until her attention is on me, and not her fears.
But Maanvi speaks then to better assure her. “Nothing, sweet one. We are going to find you and your mama a home. Then, Mender-sahm will keep checking in and make sure she is doing well. Won’t you, Katar!” Her voice now carries the crack of thunder, making it clear this is no question, but an expectation. “And I don’t want to hear a piece of how many chips it will cost, ji-ah?”
“Ji-ah, Maanvi. She is weak. Malnourished. But the worst is a jahaam in her chest. A tightness—a thickness. It is not good, but I can help her. But we must bring her somewhere warm.”
Maanvi snaps her fingers. “Then get to it. Go back to my shop, bring Ali here. He is good for more than just passing bowls to customers. We will carry her mother to your inn. Have them both settled, then we will see what comes next.”