“He called me.” She has brought fresh vegetables and eggs from Bhoot Bazaar. Runu-Didi used to ask Ma for eggs when she first started training, but Ma told her we weren’t crorepatis like the Ambanis to eat what we wanted. Now Didi isn’t here but we have eggs. It makes me angry, but I don’t say anything.
Without the TV that Ma won’t let me watch, the silence in our house is too-loud. I rustle the pages of a textbook, I wonder why Pari and Faiz haven’t come to see me. Pari’s ma has told her she can only walk around the basti if she has a grown-up with her. Maybe Pari didn’t find a grown-up today. Faiz must be working still. Ma’s knife goes chop-chop-chop. Oil sizzles, cumin seeds sputter, onions turn brown. Our house smells like it did when Runu-Didi cooked.
I lie on my tummy, on the bed, not reading my book. I smell Drunkard Laloo and look up. It’s Papa. He stumbles to the bed and sits down, almost on my hand. I pull it away in time. He asks me to move so that he can lie down.
“Look, I made all of Runu’s favorites,” Ma says. She hasn’t even noticed that Papa is drunk. “Anda-bhurji, baingan-bharta and roti.”
Ma gets up and stands at the door as if she expects Runu-Didi to run into the lane at any moment. I wait with Ma.
Papa falls asleep. The food goes cold.
TODAY IT’S EXACTLY A MONTH SINCE RUNU-DIDI—
—disappeared. Inside our house, Didi’s clothes are still waiting for her on footstools; I put out her pillow at night when I sleep; and I never roll over to her side of our mat. But outside our house, the world is changing. Fatima-ben and other Muslims have moved to another basti across the river, where only Muslims live. Some Hindus call that place Chhota-Pakistan.
Faiz and his family are also moving there. Today is his last day in our basti. Right now, Pari and I are helping Wajid-Bhai and Faiz pack up. We came here straight after school. Faiz’s ammi and his sister are already in Chhota-Pakistan with most of their stuff. Tariq-Bhai can’t help with the move because he’s still in jail. He’s supposed to be released soon, maybe this week even, but we can’t be sure. The police take ages to do anything.
By the time we are finished, Faiz’s house looks big because all the things and people in it are gone. It smells of cobwebs abandoned by spiders and dust left to thicken behind cupboards. Pari and I carry the last of their belongings outside in plastic bags. We wait for a cycle-rickshaw that Wajid-Bhai has arranged.
Some of the neighbor-chachas and chachis and children come out into the alley to watch Faiz and Wajid-Bhai leave. I take off my sweater and tie it around my waist. If Runu-Didi were to return today, she would be shocked to see that the smog is almost gone. It’s a lot warmer too, too warm for February.
Sometimes I forget Didi is gone. The police say that everyone missing is presumed dead, but Ma says Didi will come back tomorrow. She has been saying that for days. I don’t believe her.
“I never returned the money I took from you,” Pari tells Faiz. It sounds like she’s saying she’ll never see Faiz again.
“After you become a doctor, treat me for free,” Faiz says. His face and hands and even his white scar have turned dark from selling roses on the highway. “If you see me at a junction when you are driving around in your big car, slow down and buy all my flowers so that I can chutti-maro for the day.”
“You’re seriously not thinking of being a rose-seller your whole life, are you?” Pari says. “You should join a school near your new basti.”
I feel as if a hundred butterflies are fluttering inside my chest. What is a whole life? If you die when you’re still a child, is your life whole or half or zero?
“Chi, what are you doing?” Pari says, pushing Faiz away when he drops snot on her while trying to give her a hug.
I hug Faiz. Then he goes across the alley to say okay-tata-bye to his neighbors.
“Faiz is very sad to leave you two,” Wajid-Bhai says. “But it isn’t safe for us here. Someone was saying again at the toilet complex yesterday that we Muslims kidnapped Kabir and Khadifa and killed Buffalo-Baba to put the blame on the Hindu Samaj.