I hold the book to my nose and inhale, trying to call up the scents of all the hands that have flipped the pages. But all I smell is something like the atta I make chapattis with. I turn the pages carefully. Our tribal elders may not know how to read, but they revere those who can. Books contain magic, they say. If we so much as stepped on a book or on a piece of paper, we were punished. I trace the letters with my finger, and mouth out the words in the book, just as Lakshmi taught us to do. She spends an hour reading with Rekha and me every afternoon. Sometimes Lakshmi shows us how to write the names of the foods we’re eating. I now know that the word chapatti starts with a c.
Wait until I show Malik that I can write my name now! So can Rekha. Dev would be so proud of her! She learns so quickly; she thinks nothing of it. At four years old she’s learning what I’m only learning at the age of twenty-two or twenty-three (I think that one of those is right!). I’ve always been able to do simple math in my head, but now I take great pride in writing out the names of numbers from one to ten (ake, dho, theen, chaar!), and now that I’m learning to read, I can recognize the numbers by their names.
Lakshmi has given each of us a workbook so we can practice. Sometimes, when I’m in the garden, I copy the names of the plants that are written on labels in each row. Even if I don’t know what the labels say, I want to find out, later, so I can remember them.
When I form the letter M, I think of Malik, and wonder if I might, someday, read the letters that he sends. When Lakshmi reads his words and thoughts to me, I feel embarrassed, ashamed even. Those messages should be a private thing, between Malik and me; I want to read the parts I like best by myself, or just take his letters with me when I go up on the ridge at night. I like to imagine his fingers tented on the corner of the thin paper, holding it steady, as he writes my name. I sometimes think how it would feel to have him write “Nimmi” on my palm, my back, my thigh!
I finally allowed Lakshmi to henna our hands—mine and Rekha’s. Lakshmi is so practiced that it took her only minutes to create a new design for Rekha. Rekha was so good; she didn’t move a muscle until the henna paste was dry enough that it could be removed.
On Rekha’s palms, Lakshmi drew an elephant with its trunk stretching from one palm to the other. When Rekha brings her hands together, the elephant is complete, and she squeals in delight. She moves her hands, pretending that the elephant is raising its trunk and moving it about.
When Lakshmi tried to put some dots on Chullu’s palms, he tried to lick the henna off, which made us laugh!
The first time Lakshmi asked me what design I wanted on my hands, I couldn’t think of one. So she decided to draw peonies on one palm and roses on the other. When I bring my hands together, I have a bouquet that I can raise to my nose and breathe in the henna’s clean and earthy smell. It reminds me of my wedding day, the only other time my hands and arms and feet were decorated.
Chullu is fussing and I rub his back until he falls asleep again. My boy. A year old already! He’s walking and starting to talk. In a few years, Rekha will be able to teach him how to read and write his name. That would never have been possible if Dev hadn’t died, and we hadn’t left the mountains, and my people, to live in town. I would love for Dev to be with us now. I want him to see how his children are thriving. How I’m doing what I never thought possible: learning to live without our tribe, and without him. All at once, my eyes fill. How I loved those creases on the sides of his mouth, the rough feel of his palms, hardened by years of guiding his shepherd’s crook, scaling trees to chop leaves and branches for the goats to feed on. How he loved his goats! I can almost hear him saying, Never approach a goat from the front, a horse from the back, or a fool from the side! Then he would laugh. Oh, how he would laugh, as if it was the first time he’d said it!
I trace one of Chullu’s eyebrows. Dev is no longer in my life, and I have to show Rekha and Chullu that they can survive without him, too. I blink to clear my eyes. I glance at the picture book of wildflowers. I try to sound out the words below the photo. But I recognize only the letter at the beginning. I close the book. Will I ever be able to write a letter to Malik? If I could, what would I say?
My love,
After Dev died, I didn’t know if I could love another man. Then you came along. You’re like him but also different. And I miss you so much!
Let me tell you something that will make you happy. I’m enjoying working for your Auntie-Boss. Mostly because she leaves me alone. I decide what to plant, whether to use seeds or seedlings, when to fertilize and when to harvest.
She’s made some mistakes—I can tell you that much. She’s trying to grow a sandalwood tree, but it’ll never take. I haven’t seen another tree like that one here. But your Auntie-Boss never gives up, does she? She’s always trying something new, mixing new things in the soil, moving that sandalwood sapling to different parts of the garden.
I’ve told her what she should substitute for the Rajasthani grasses she’s used to using for her ointments. I hope I’m right. I’ve never been anywhere south of Shimla, and I don’t know what Rajasthan is like or anything about the plants that grow there. Your Auntie-Boss says it’s so dry in Rajasthan that the soil just turns to dust and flies away. I can’t imagine that!
She lets me bring the children to work, and they love being outdoors, near the garden. I used to fear that when I left Rekha and Chullu with the Aroras, who are as old as the Himalayas, the children got no exercise. Now my children breathe fresh air all day.
I brush a strand of hair away from Rekha’s face. She sleeps so soundly.
What else would I write?
The Shimla Mall has become busier with tourists from all over. But it isn’t the same when you’re not around to surprise the children with your little presents. They’re restless, always hoping you’ll show up. Rekha says she’s angry with you for not coming to see us. She wants you here so you can buy balloon animals for her from the vendor in the next stall. Chullu is gnawing everything in sight as his teeth come in, including the balloon creatures, so most of them are no more. (Rekha has shrouded them in scraps of cloth that Mrs. Arora gave her and given them a funeral.)
I remind Rekha that Lakshmi-ji and Dr. Jay always give her a balloon animal when she asks for one, but she says it’s not the same as when you do it because she likes to hear you make the different noises of the animals you give to her. You’ve spoiled her!
Rekha released the green cricket you gave her somewhere in our room. His loud chirps, early in the morning, wake us up. She tries to catch him, but the cricket’s faster. Still, she won’t give up.
Chullu just cut another tooth! He’s grouchy because it’s hurting, but I rub that honey you gave us on his gums, which makes him very, very happy.
They’d both be happier if you were here. They want to know when you’re coming home.
So Malik, when are you coming home?