Anarkali

Pooja Joshi

Amma and Baba never knew about those dinners. 

Sometimes it felt like the truth might come hurtling out of my mouth like vomit, because my belly was already so full of Anarkali’s food there was no room left for a secret. But then I’d find a burp within my bowels, something would deflate, and the secret remained right where it was, festering like a cancer inside my stomach, but never coming out. 

My family did not call her Anarkali — to them, she was Chikoo Tai. Chikoo — the fruit. Tai — a term of respect. She was younger than my parents. But still, Chikoo Tai. She came early in the morning, before the sun had risen over the glittering skyline of Mumbai that stretched to oblivion outside the windows of my grandparents’ high-rise apartment. I usually woke up groggily to find her sweating in the kitchen, either scrubbing dishes or ladling chai into teacups. I didn’t know that people weren’t friends with their maids — it seemed but natural to me. 

I liked to watch her work, though I rarely spoke before the first invitation to dinner. I think she saw something fascinating in me too, ever since I first appeared that summer to visit my grandparents. An American girl. From the place in the movies she would subtly glance at on the television while sweeping the living room floor. A girl who could barely string together a sentence in Marathi. Chikoo Tai would furrow her eyebrows, trying to understand my desperately warbled words and stumbling phrases. 

Yetes ka majhyakade? was her first invitation. Will you come to my place? She stared at me, expectant. It took a moment for the words to register in my brain. 

I nodded.  

Where are you going? Amma asked, not looking up from the detailed shopping list she was writing. There were many clothes to buy in that one month. Foodstuffs. Items that one could not find back home. Or maybe this was home. Or this was their home and America was my home. But they were my parents. How could we not have the same home? 

To play. I said, the lie already ballooning uncomfortably in my stomach. She looked up at that and nodded. 

It’s good to make friends here. You can practice speaking Marathi. 

Okay. 

Come back in two hours for dinner. 

Chikoo Tai was leaning against the building gate. She appraised me, a quick up-and-down. My pressed jeans and ironed t-shirt stood in stark contrast to her sweat-stained saree. I was twelve, and she probably eighteen or nineteen, but we were about the same size. 

Chal. Come. 

The watchman looked as though he might make a comment but thought better of it. He groaned, shifting in his plastic chair to pointedly face another direction.  

The building was just off a main road, on a quiet side street lined with flowering trees. Usually, when I left the gated compound, it was in an air-conditioned car taking me to a destination of my parents’ choosing. Chikoo Tai seemed to prefer wandering in unfamiliar directions. We walked through a market that stank of day-old fish. People yelling — screeching, really — at one another. At some point, it transformed into a fruit market. The fruits were deformed, their skins blistered and taken hostage by flies. Narrowed eyes, simultaneously curious and suspicious, followed me through the crowd. I suddenly felt very self-conscious of the jeans I was wearing. Chikoo Tai grasped my hand and parted the throngs, somehow an expert in navigating these alleyways. 

I watched something change within her as we moved through the subliminal and physical spaces that separated our lives. The meek Chikoo Tai, who toiled away at the command of her wealthy patrons, disappeared into the choking dust. Here, she was something else. Here, she became Anarkali. 

A large man was waiting for us at the rust-colored door that would soon become familiar to me. He looked cross, his moustache drooping over either side of his bulging lips. His skin was pockmarked, like the surface of Mars in my science textbook.

What the hell is this? A thick scowl. A groan. His beady eyes raked over me, blinking rapidly as he tried to put together the pieces.

Why have you brought the madam here? 

Chikoo Tai shrugged. 

She wanted to come. Then she turned to look at me, dropping my hand in the process. Didn’t you? Tell Ganesh.   

I looked between the two, deciding I owed my loyalty to Chikoo Tai, despite the questionable veracity of her claims.

Ho, I assented, trying to look as curious about this fly-infested place as I could.

Ganesh rolled his eyes, grumbling something under his breath. 

I’m hungry. With that, he was gone, disappearing through that rust-colored door. 

Chikoo Tai cursed under her breath, making to follow him. But just as she was about to cross the threshold, she turned to look at me again.

You call me Anarkali here. Understand? 

I nodded and followed her. Over the step, and into Anarkali’s world. 

The house — if you could call it that — was small. It seemed there were only two rooms. I could not see a bathroom of any kind. I decided to hold my pee until I returned to the safety of the high-rise and its flushing commodes. Ganesh was clattering around in the second room, his movements obscured by a curtain attempting to create some semblance of separation.

Sit. 

Her hands moved quickly, the way they did in our kitchen at home. But everything else was different. The splintering flame of the gas stove was thin, as if gas had to be conserved. Smoke choked the air as she cooked because there was no vent for it escape through. The pots and pans were rusted, blackened with use. A lizard meandered across the wall, threatening to drop on Anarkali’s head at any moment. But he never did, eventually making it to the window and slithering away.

Eat. The second instruction.

The food was unquestionably delicious, as it always was when she cooked. A steaming hot roti, enhanced with some kind of unknown flavor that perhaps came from the dust-caked cast iron pan. A sizzling ladle of masala aloo, burning upon my tongue as I took a bite. She handed me an unopened bottle of Bisleri water.

I paid extra for that. Because your American bowels are pathetically weak. 

I nodded. It was all I could do to stomach a secret. Choleric water would send me over the edge. 

I watched her move about the room as I ate. She seemed to ignore my existence after a moment, busying herself by a cracked mirror hanging above the small sink in the corner. There were a few lipsticks and other makeup accessories spread across the counter. Brushes lying used but missing bristles. I could have sworn I recognized one of the lipsticks as my mother’s — but before I could get a closer look, she’d shoved it into the drawer. 

Do you like makeup? 

I stared uncomfortably. I’d never been allowed to wear makeup. Baba said it was something only girls over the age of fifteen should be allowed to wear. 

I do. I lied. 

Would you like to put on my lipstick? She held out a couple of options. I noticed she did not offer me the one that probably belonged to my mother. 

I took a deep red and spread it carefully across my lips, which were still stinging a bit from the spices of the food she had given me. 

You look cute like this. She cocked her head as she said it, and I smiled. 

Well, now that you’ve used my lipstick, you owe me something in return. 

The smile slid off my face.

I don’t have anything. 

She waved her hand in dismissal. 

Bring it next time. 

What do you want from me?

Just bring me a shirt. Nothing big. Something you don’t mind giving away. 

It seemed like a fair trade. I wiped off the lipstick and agreed.

That night, Amma asked me if I’d made any friends while I was playing. I shook my head.

It’s okay, you can try again. Maybe you can talk about that Bollywood movie we saw last week. 

And that was how she allowed me to leave again the next evening. 

Again, Chikoo Tai awaited me at the gate. This time, the watchman was nowhere to be found. Again, we voyaged through the Stygian markets that carried us from Chikoo Tai’s world into Anarkali’s.

Did you bring me something? She asked the question while plopping a roti onto my plate. I nodded, reaching into my bag. I had also brought my own bottle of Bisleri this time. 

A shirt and a skirt. I laid them out on the single cot in the room. They were nothing fancy — just simple clothes I might have worn to school. A pink T-shirt with a Hollister logo etched across the chest. A skirt from Target or TJ Maxx. A grin broke out on Anarkali’s face, revealing a missing molar I had never noticed before. 

Give me a moment. 

There were several loud noises from the next room as she changed into the clothes. When she stepped out, I frowned. I wanted to tell her the clothes didn’t look very good on her. I was a bit pudgy, and her frame thin and lanky. My clothes hung off her body like drapes.  

But before I could say anything at all, she had sauntered over to the mirror to admire herself. 

I look so beautiful, don’t I? I didn’t know much about fashion, but I knew that the garish lipstick paired with my awfully bright pink t-shirt was not quite what someone would call beautiful. And yet, it seemed that disagreeing with Anarkali would break her heart.

You look very nice. Lying to her was so much easier than lying to my parents.

At dinner that night, I pushed my food around my plate. I was terribly full from eating at Anarkali’s place, but I dared not admit the truth. My father was telling us all about catching up with his old friends from university over lunch earlier that day. 

Not hungry today? Amma looked at the untouched okra with a frown, interrupting Baba’s animated retelling of how Rajesh Uncle had been fired for his indiscretions, whatever that meant. 

My stomach is hurting a bit. That was not a lie at least. 

Very well. Maybe you’ll lose some weight. She laughed at that, as if it were some kind of joke. So did my grandmother. I didn’t find it funny at all.

Anyway, it was eye-opening to hear about Rajesh’s misfortune. I’m happy where I am. The airline is a good place to work, Baba continued, as if the interruption had never even occurred. I continued to push the food around my plate, sinking deeper into the seat. Perhaps if I lowered myself enough, I would simply disappear. 

The next morning, Baba was leaving for a conference in Hong Kong. Amma was irritated that he hadn’t taken the full month off, but he clucked, saying that managers didn’t have it as easy as housewives. I couldn’t hear the rest of the argument, because Amma closed the door to their bedroom at one point. I wasn’t sure if she wanted to hide the fight from me or from my grandparents. 

Baba stormed out, passing the kitchen table where I sat with my mug of steamed milk. Anarkali was sweeping the floor of the living room as he left. 

Have a good trip, sir. I exchanged a look with my father. Anarkali rarely spoke to him, given she was a “matter of the home,” and “matters of the home” were handled by Amma. 

Thank you, Chikoo Tai. With a wink to me, he whisked himself out the door, suitcase yanked firmly behind him. 

I went to Anarkali’s house again that evening. She had fried pomfret in a fragrant garlicky sauce, and I was tearing the fish off its bony interior, smacking my lips as I went. She watched me from the kitchen, arms crossed. 

Ganesh sat beside me, licking and smacking even more messily than I was. By that point, I had figured out two things about him. First, he was not related to Anarkali in any way — not her husband, nor her brother, nor her father. Second, she did not even particularly like him. And yet, he remained a fixture. I had seen him leave crumpled bills on the table once or twice. He made a point of barely recognizing my existence. 

He left after finishing his dinner, pulling Anarkali to the side to whisper a few words to her. As I licked a trickle of gravy from my finger, I noticed his beady eyes on me, something I wasn’t used to. They seemed to bore into me like nails. I hated those eyes.

Just remember. He said the last two words louder, so I could catch them. Anarkali nodded and glanced back to me as he sauntered outside. I heard a loud belch and the screech of a broken bicycle being swiveled onto the road. 

You’ve eaten here several times now, Anarkali finally spoke as she washed my dish. 

Yes. I nodded.

When I cook for you at your home, your grandparents pay me for that, you know. She continued to scrub, elongating the lifespan of the bead of soap she had used. 

I knew that. 

So you should pay me for this food as well. She turned the trickle of gray-ish water off, turning to look at me. Her eyes were steely, authoritative in a way I had never seen them before. 

I don’t have any money. I was confused. I thought the dinners had been a gift. That some kind of unlikely friendship had formed between us. My other friends never asked me for money when I ate at their houses. 

Get it from your mother. She suggested it nonchalantly, as if I could just ask my mother to pay for the dinners I’d been attending behind her back. You’ll need to bring at least twenty thousand rupees.

I didn’t know very much at that age, but I knew twenty thousand rupees was a lot of money. But who could say? Perhaps she was feeding me very expensive foods. Perhaps I did indeed owe her that much. 

I couldn’t ask Amma for the money directly, of course. But she usually kept a wad of bills in her purse in the living room, meant for all the shopping she was doing. After everyone had gone to sleep, I quietly made my way through the darkness, taking care to avoid the creaky parts of the floor. Sweat dripped down my temples. This was very, very wrong. This was stealing. 

But could one steal from their own parents? Wasn’t this our money? 

I counted twenty bills, each crisp, with a bold “one thousand” plastered across. To be fair, the wad in the purse was fat. There was a very good chance she would fail to even notice the absence of the bills I was taking. I prayed to God for the first time in years that night. 

Please don’t let Amma notice. 

When I watched Amma gather her things to leave for shopping at the saree shop the next morning, I waited for the inevitable explosion. What was I thinking? Of course she would realize I had taken the money.

But she simply rummaged through the purse, nodded approvingly, and kissed my forehead. With that, she was gone. 

When I handed Anarkali the bills that afternoon, that same Cheshire grin returned, missing molar on display. 

Did I bring the right amount? I worried I had counted something wrong. She whirled about, tucking the wad of cash into the top of her blouse.

Aaj vade talte. Today, I’ll make you fritters. She bustled into the kitchen, pouring hot oil into a pan for the snack. It seemed the money had been enough. 

The dinners continued every night while Baba was at the conference. I told Amma I had made new friends in the building. She didn’t ask too many questions. I was understanding her better when she spoke in Marathi, even though the Marathi she spoke and the Marathi Anarkali spoke seemed worlds apart in my ears. 

Baba returned that Saturday morning, a green tie loose around his neck and his suit a bit crumpled from the flight. His eyes were bleary and reddened, though I wasn’t sure if it was from lack of sleep or an early morning drink. 

Chaha de. He ordered Anarkali to bring him tea as soon as he stepped into the apartment, the first thing out of his mouth, before he even greeted me or Amma. 

The tea was brought out with haste, boiling hot and peppered with cardamom the way he liked it. He barely acknowledged Anarkali’s hands, taking the cup and leaning back in the large armchair with a groan. 

What a tiring week. Amma pressed her hands into his shoulders, and I watched him physically deflate under her touch. He continued to speak about the conference, once again beginning a monologue as if his life were the most interesting thing in the world. He did not ask about Amma’s shopping or her meeting with old friends the night before. He never asked about such things.

The subsidiary wants to launch the new flights by the end of the year, so there’s going to be a big recruitment program over the next couple of months. Just imagine — we’ll be the prime connector from Mumbai to Hong Kong, Shanghai, and Taipei. He turned to the left so Amma could massage his shoulder. It’ll be quite busy for me. She sniffed, but said nothing, continuing to press. What was there to be said? 

Anarkali watched silently from the corner. 

What is it like? she asked me out of the blue as I ate rice mixed with daal on the floor of her little house. What is it like to fly? 

I shrugged.

It’s just like sitting in a chair, mostly. 

Do you feel like a bird?

Not really. You can’t even tell you’re in the sky unless you look out the window. 

What a sight that must be. 

Sure. I continued to eat as she stared at me. 

What?

Oh, nothing.

We sat in silence for a few moments as she continued to stare. I wondered what thoughts could possibly be coursing through her head. Finally, she stood and returned to the vanity mirror, picking up that horrible lipstick she liked to wear with my t-shirt. 

Your father is hiring air hostesses, did you know that? She said it airily, as if it were a typical conversation for us to have. 

I didn’t know. 

Anarkali hummed.

Would you ask him to give me a job? She looked at me, eyes round and shining, as if I had the power of Santa Claus. I didn’t know anything about what Baba did, but I could not bear to tell her that. 

I can ask.

She dropped me at home as the sun dipped below the horizon, bidding me good night. At that point, the watchman knew our schedule, and never seemed to be around during these incriminating moments at the gate. 

Ask him when I come tomorrow morning. 

I nodded.

That night felt colder than most, as I tossed and turned under my quilt. It was a sweltering Mumbai summer, but the air conditioner had been cranked up to its highest setting, leaving me shivering under the covers. I wondered what Baba would say. If Amma would realize what I’d been doing for all those nights. I was going to be in deep trouble for this friendship with Chikoo Tai. I didn’t quite understand why I was so sure of it, but I was.

So I resolved to tell her I would not be asking Baba to give her a job. 

She watched me expectantly as she scrubbed the floor in the morning. I sat at the table beside Baba, dipping Parle G biscuits into my milk as he flipped through the stack of newspapers that were delivered at the crack of every dawn. 

Why aren’t you asking him? she hissed at me in the corner when I went into the kitchen to drop my mug in the sink. I shrunk away from her. 

I don’t think it’s a good idea. I was mumbling, almost under my breath, but she caught my words.

You owe me, girl. Now go ask him. It was an order, and I did not have the power to fight back. 

Baba. He didn’t look up, simply humming at me from behind his newspaper. The fan whirled above us as I dug around my brain for the right words.

I was wondering… I trailed off. 

Yes? 

Well, I thought maybe what you were saying the other day about hiring at your company… I trailed off yet again.

What? Why are you asking about such things, child? 

Well, maybe you could hire Chikoo Tai. I said all the words very fast, wanting to be rid of them as soon as possible. 

What? He looked between me and Chikoo Tai, who was now standing in the corner, looking at the floor. 

Then he chuckled.

That’s a nice thought, child, but that won’t do. He chuckled to himself again, turning back to the newspaper.

But—

Chikoo Tai is happy here, child. He put down his newspaper. Right? This he said directly to her, as if challenging her to disagree with him.

I would like to be an air hostess, sir. She said it breathlessly, maybe trying to imitate the way air hostesses sometimes talk. 

He looked incredulously between us, dumbfounded. 

Did you ask her to ask me this? He slowly turned to face Chikoo Tai. Something had appeared to fall into place in his brain. 

Kay challay? What’s going on? Amma walked into the room, her wet hair still wrapped in a towel. No one answered her, as Baba continued to glare at Chikoo Tai. 

Sir, I— Chikoo Tai herself now looked a bit scared. Anarkali was nowhere to be seen.

She’s coerced our daughter somehow. Baba was purpling with anger. 

Amma came over to me, placing an arm protectively around my shoulders, as if Chikoo Tai would physically harm me. 

Chikoo Tai? She didn’t question Baba at all — they both had decided Chikoo Tai was guilty of something terrible. 

I just wanted— I just thought maybe I could— For once, Chikoo Tai was at a loss for words.

You thought you could work for me, Chikoo Tai? You know you must speak English to work at the airline. His words were vicious. Amma tightened her grasp around me. I wanted to say something. To defend Chikoo Tai. But the words would not come to me. 

How did she coerce you, child? Baba growled at me, and I grew very scared of what he might say. The lie threatened to pop like a cyst within me and come gushing out, but I gulped and forced it back down.

We just talked and— I did not finish my sentence.

I’m done with this nonsense. Shut up and do your work. He turned back to his newspaper, muttering about the audacity of these people. 

You owe me more money now. Chikoo Tai whispered this to me as she slipped on her sandals later. Her face had buckled with embarrassment earlier, and she’d been entirely silent completing the rest of her work. I nodded. Of course I owed her. I had utterly failed to help her get the new job.

Twenty thousand more. I’ll be by the gate at our usual time. With that, she was gone. 

Amma and Baba went for a nap in the afternoon, as the sun rose high above the clouds. The buildings seemed to cook in the brightness, blurring as the light moved about. 

I snuck my way into Amma’s purse yet again, counting out another twenty bills. The fan continued to whir incessantly as I tucked them into the waistband of my jeans and slipped through the door, hasty in my effort to finish this business.

I was too focused on getting to the gate.

I didn’t even look behind me.

Anarkali was waiting patiently, crouching so her full frame fit within the shadow cast by the stone wall. I thought she would be happy to see me, but when she did, her face blanched, contorted with horror. 

Why are you here? she asked in a high-pitched voice. I furrowed my eyebrows. 

I brought you the money. In my excitement, I pulled out the bills and waved them in her face. 

And that was when I finally realized that I had fallen into a trap.

What in the name of God are you doing? 

I whisked around to see Baba seething just ten feet away, his hands closed into fists, knuckles gleaming white. The bills fell from my hand, lazily fluttering to the ground as the world crashed down around us.

Sir, I don’t know— Chikoo Tai backed against the wall, looking as though she might cry. 

You’re blackmailing our daughter now? You bitch! Baba roared at her, his spittle flying in all directions. He grabbed my arm tightly, so tight I cried out in pain, and pulled me behind him. I’d never thought he was particularly tall, but now, he towered over Chikoo Tai, face red and teeth bared. 

How much money have you stolen from us, bitch? Baba raised his hand and slapped her across the face. My mouth dropped open. I’d never seen him act this way, so unrelenting. She crumpled to the ground, whimpering apologies that no one could hear. Apologies no one cared to hear.

The watchman ran up to us, perhaps deciding it was finally time to intervene. 

Call the police, Ramu. My father’s voice was dripping with acid. Lock this bitch up for stealing from us.

Please sir, I beg you— Chikoo Tai crawled forward and latched onto his leg, rocking against it in a plea for freedom.

Get off me, you cockroach. Baba kicked her in disgust. 

I watched her fall backwards, the dust on the ground now flaking her cotton saree. Large tears streaked her face. Anarkali was gone. Only the pitiful Chikoo Tai was left behind like a stain on the road. 

Baba sent me upstairs, and Amma forbade me from looking out the window. I sat at the table, waiting and wondering what would happen to Chikoo Tai, if she would reveal what I had been doing behind my parents’ back. 

I did not see what happened to her. When Baba came back to the apartment, he gave me a withering look and went to the bathroom, calling for Amma to bring him his towel. Upon his return, he said nothing at all. No one said anything at all.

Of course, the silence was only for our own family. For days, Amma called every one of our relatives, reveling in the opportunity to share some new gossip. Forty thousand rupees she stole from us. Coercing a child, what a vile mind! The story grew more and more embellished, more and more fantastical, each time she told it. By the end, I started to wonder if my own memory of the events was somehow wrong, if I had imagined all that I had seen.  

The night we were due to leave Mumbai, I sat at the windowsill in the living room, looking out upon the sea of twinkling fluorescent lights that washed out the city after the sun dipped below the horizon. Amma and Baba whizzed about, finishing packing the bags (I told you that vase would put us over the weight limit, he was yelling), but I was still. I wondered if Anarkali was down there, underneath one of those fluorescent lights, looking back up at me. 

We trekked downstairs, Ramu helping Baba lug the bags. My grandmother tearfully held my hands, wondering out loud if she would be alive to see me again. More than once, I saw Amma roll her eyes at the dramatics. Still, I was quiet. 

A minivan waited for us in front of the building. As my grandmother finally let go of me, I turned to clamber into the van. A rough hand extended to help me. I looked up gratefully, only to recoil with fear. 

What are you doing here? I blurted it out before I stopped myself. His beady eyes flashed dangerously. No one else had seemed to notice my outburst, too busy yelling at Ramu about how best to fit the bags in the trunk. 

Ganesh pretended not to know me at all as we set off from the apartment. We left behind the leafy street and turned onto the symphony of cars and rickshaws and motorcycles and buses and the occasional oxcart that was the expressway. He turned up the volume on the music, as if a veneer of sound could drown out the ambivalent chaos of the world outside. 

I love this song. It was the first time I’d seen Baba smile all evening. He finally relaxed into the seat, humming along to the crisp melodies of Lata Mangeshkar. Beautiful movie, Mughal-e-Azam. 

You probably just liked to look at Anarkali. Now it was Amma who piped up with a smirk. I turned to look at her incredulously. She took my surprise as a question, chuckling as she dabbed hand sanitizer onto her palms again. 

We’ll watch this film sometime, child. It’s a good one. Tragic story of Prince Salim and Anarkali. She joined Baba in humming.

What happened to Anarkali? It was a desperate question, one that I probably knew would never be satisfactorily answered. They couldn’t know. How could they know anything? 

But before Amma could say anything, Ganesh cleared his throat, cutting through the music that had seemed to speed up impossibly, filling the car with something beyond this world. His decaying, tobacco-stained teeth appeared behind a curl in his lip, illuminated by the sickening light of every vehicle that raced around us to oblivion. It was a monster of a smile, not friendly in the least. I wanted to vomit, feeling the horrible lie, that terrible burden curdling in my stomach.  

They buried her alive.