White Dancing Elephants by Chaya Bhuvaneswar

Author:Chaya Bhuvaneswar
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Dzanc Books
Published: 2018-10-22T16:00:00+00:00

NEELA: BHOPAL, 1984

YOU ALWAYS TRUSTED THE FOREST. Here, danger can be seen and is known. The floor is layered with cool leaves that can be used to cover up faces. You’re lying here, laughing and out of breath; your brothers are lying beside you. The first one to move will be tickled by all the rest, who pretend to be monsters and fake-growl with the hunger of thin ghosts. All of you will watch out for the glint of teeth and dazzling, predatory coils.

The dense brush hides tigers, snakes, and a tiny creek that tastes fresh after the rain. Your youngest brother knows the best places

The edge of the pretend forest, a neglected city garden, is where you and your brothers purchase time by tickling each other or run and scramble over rocks as if the four of you never had to work. As if your father never accepted a packet of rupees and four quintals of wheat, one for each of you. As if he never told you, Neela, go. As if he didn’t stop you, when you were nine, from holding onto your mother’s sari. As if he didn’t hold you and your brothers back, including the youngest one, age five, from nearly tearing the sari off her body when they wouldn’t let go.

Your hands could be washed of the clay, of the hard coal, and every day your fingers moved more quickly than the legs of men who carried finished pyramids, fresh bricks for the furnace. In summer, you and your brothers first broke coal, then walked without bending into the brick kiln, cloth protecting your mouths from the smoke. December was joy and cold, the fumes of the kiln more bearable when you could rinse your mouths with water, which was not so scarce then. And after working, you and your brothers knew that you could leap over everything jagged you saw. In seconds, you could place many yards between the intimation of a threat, its small or large rustle, and yourself. You could easily outrun strangers’ hands, and rejoice at the chill. Walking outside, into the kiln and back, and then sleeping on the ground of the shanty was still better than working in the factory.

Then early one morning, coming back with a vessel of water, you spy a pile of bright folded cotton cloths on the ground and, because of the weight you carried, you carefully make your way toward it, even though you want to run.

December. Your birthday.

Maybe a pavaday from home—a dream. But all three half-naked little boys, the brothers who’d once thrown stones at palaces with you, or come at you with sticks for swords, are sleeping on the ground near the shanty, tensed and at odd angles, as if they’d tried escaping even in their sleep.

Still hoping they’re playing a game, you set down the water and tickle them. You listen for breath, but hear nothing. You’ve understood the danger too late. Eyes burning now, you run. To the forest. You arrive stumbling and unsteady, but are forced to stop because you can’t see anymore.

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