Rickshaw Girl Read online

  Naima tugged the white ribbon off her braid. “Here—this is for you.”

  “For me? Why?”

  “It’s a present, a keepsake, to remember that we’re friends, even if we can’t meet here as often as we used to. Now you leave first, and I’ll come out after a few minutes.”

  As she walked back to the hut, Saleem drove by. He rang the bell and waved, making sure she

  saw the strip of white gleaming around his wrist.

  The single room of the hut was dim and hushed. Mother and Rashida’s sleeping bodies hadn’t moved. Naima knew that they wouldn’t start to worry until it got dark. Mother sometimes allowed Naima to visit a cousin on the other side of the village, and Naima had forgotten to ask for permission once or twice before heading out. She was counting on Mother thinking that she’d forgotten again.

  She opened the bundle Saleem had handed her. Inside, she found a cap, a lungi cloth, and a kurta shirt. They were the fancy set that he wore to the mosque. Silently she took off her salwar kameez and put on the boy’s clothes, tucking her braid carefully under the cap.

  Ten

  THE VILLAGE WAS SLOWLY waking up. It wouldn’t be long before the lanes were bustling with rickshaws and people. The tea stall owner was boiling a big kettle of water. His television, the only one in the neighborhood, would draw a big crowd of men who wanted to watch the afternoon news and drink tea. Other vendors along the street were starting to arrange their wares—rubber sandals, wool shawls, toys, baskets of pomegranates, cinnamon sticks, and cloves.

  At first Naima felt odd in Saleem’s clothes. She kept away from other people, worried that they’d see through her disguise. As the streets began to

  fill, though, an older boy walking in the opposite direction came quite close, looked right at her, and then peered over her shoulder to catch a glimpse of someone else. Other villagers who were starting to stir up the lanes with noise and dust didn’t seem to notice anything unusual about Naima either.

  Only a few women and girls her age were out walking. They stood out like marigold blossoms in the grass. Everybody stared at them. Naima strode along in her disguise, enjoying the freedom from curious eyes. How easy to be a boy, she thought. I could go into the tea stall and watch television if I wanted. I could stop and bargain with fruit sellers. But she didn’t have time to linger. She had to get to that repair shop before Father did! She forced herself not to think about Father’s reaction when he found her.

  After leaving the marketplace Naima took a shortcut, splashing through rice paddies. She found the lane that led to the other village and trotted along it. She knew the way; Father had taken her and Rashida there for a drive after bringing the new rickshaw home. What she didn’t know was how to find the new repair shop.

  A boy about her age was selling bananas in the center of the other village. “Three taka a dozen!” he was shouting.

  Naima strode up to him, confident now in her disguise. “Do you know where the new rickshaw repair shop is?” she asked, remembering to deepen her voice.

  “By the pond,” the boy said, steadying his basket as he tipped his chin to show her the direction. “Why do you want to go there?”

  “I’m hoping the new owner might need a helper. Do you know if the shop’s hired someone already?”

  The boy smirked. “Not that I know of,” he said. “You’d have to be desperate to want that job.”

  Naima could tell he was hoping she’d ask more questions, but she didn’t have time for gossip. “I am desperate,” she said, forgetting to lower her voice. She headed in the direction of the shop, leaving him staring after her.

  The shadows of the coconut trees were growing tall and thin when Naima reached the pond. She spotted the shop immediately—a small hut in a yard littered with rickshaw panels, tools, cans of paint, leather benches, and tires. She glimpsed an older woman standing beside a stack of tin panels. Naima knew she was a widow because only women who had lost their husbands wore white sarees.

  “Excuse me,” Naima said politely, coming up behind the woman. “Is this Hassan’s Rickshaw Repair Shop?” This time she remembered to lower her voice.

  “What do you want? Can’t you see that I’m busy?”

  Did everybody have to waste precious time by asking questions? Naima fought to make her voice sound patient and respectful. “My father’s rickshaw needs repairs,” she answered. “I came to see if I could do some work in exchange for them. May I see the repairman to ask him this favor?”

  “I am the repairman,” the woman said.

  Eleven

  NAIMA’S HEAD WHIRLED and her mouth fell open. This widow was the owner of a rickshaw repair shop? Here—in a village just like her own? How could that be? But the woman had half-turned to see her, and that was a brush in her hand. That was paint staining her saree. Naima hadn’t noticed the shining rectangle of unpainted tin propped up in front of her.

  “My first order, and only one day to complete it,” the woman was saying, almost as if she were talking to herself. “I need to concentrate, and all I get are interruptions.” She didn’t bother keeping the irritation out of her voice.

  Naima didn’t move. The woman made an exasperated noise and went back to work. Naima peered over her shoulder as the woman dipped the brush in a pot of yellow paint. The slim, stained fingers guided the brush, leaving a trail of yellow leaves across the tin.

  “I could help you,” Naima said suddenly. “I paint the best alpanas in my village.”

  The woman sighed but didn’t stop painting. “Are you still here?” she asked. “Why don’t you go and bother someone else? We both know that boys don’t paint alpanas.“

  Naima took off her cap and let her braid tumble down. “I’m not a boy,” she said.

  The woman’s brush stopped in midair. She placed the brush in a jar of water and turned around again. All the way, this time. “A-re!” she said, looking as amazed as Naima must have when Naima had discovered her identity. “Why are you dressing up like that, then?”

  The story poured out of Naima like water from a pitcher. “… and it was all my fault,” she ended. “I can’t earn money because I’m a girl, so I borrowed these clothes.”

  “Who says girls can’t earn money?” the woman asked. She adjusted her saree, folded her arms across her chest, and jutted out her chin.

  Something about the woman’s stance seemed familiar, but Naima didn’t stop to figure out what it was. “I don’t know who made the rule,” she answered. “But it’s always been like that.”

  “Things are changing whether people around here like it or not. These days a woman who wants to start her own business can borrow money from our women’s bank. We decided to put our money together and help each other.”

  “Is that what you did? Borrow money from the women’s bank?”

  The woman nodded. “After my husband died all I had left were these.” She made her ten fingers bow and straighten in front of Naima’s eyes. “Thankfully, while my father was teaching my brothers the trade, I always tagged along and learned everything I could. Neither of my brothers wanted to run the shop, so Father closed it down before he died. He had no idea I’d be the one to open it up again.”

  “Are you making money?” Naima asked eagerly, not bothering to wonder if the question was rude. It felt like the most important question in the world.

  The woman didn’t seem to mind. “I’ve only been open for a few days. This order’s for my cousin Ali’s rickshaw fleet. If he likes my work, he’s promised to give me more business—and spread the word. People have always followed Ali’s lead.”

  As she listened Naima caught sight of an old-fashioned rickshaw. It was freshly painted with borders of orchids and lilies and water hyacinths outlining each panel. The words “Hassan’s Rickshaw Repair Shop” were emblazoned on the back panel. And each of the side panels declared: “The best work at the best prices.” The painter had used bright yellow paint to form the perfect Bangla lettering. Something about the borders that de
corated each panel reminded Naima of an alpana design.

  Meanwhile the rickshaw woman was studying Naima’s hands. “Hmm,” she said thoughtfully. “I could use some help—Ali won’t give me more business if I don’t finish by tomorrow, even if he is family. Painting a rickshaw panel from scratch requires a lot of training, but I might let you try touching up one of the panels that still looks somewhat decent.” She moved her fingers quickly down the stack, stopping to tap a corner of tin about halfway up from the ground. “Take this panel and let me see what you do with it. It won’t take me much time to fix if you make too many mistakes. But watch me for a while before you start. Applying enamel paint on tin is quite different than painting rice powder on a stone.”

  The sun was sinking low and the evening call to prayer from the village mosque echoed across the pond. Mother was going to start worrying soon, but Naima couldn’t leave now. The woman lit a few kerosene lanterns and went back to her painting. Naima watched the woman closely, noticing how much paint she placed on the brush and the way it was supposed to be held in the hand.

  After a while Naima gathered her courage. She carefully moved a half-dozen panels one by one, making a new stack beside the first one until she uncovered the faded one the woman had tapped. Placing it on the ground by itself, she squinted at the painting. A border of marigolds edged their way around the whole rectangle. They framed two white doves perched on a rock beside a pond. Close by, a tiger was bending his head to drink.

  Taking a deep breath Naima squatted in front of the panel. She chose a clean brush and dipped it into the pot of orange. She gripped the brush firmly, just as the woman did, and started painting. It wasn’t hard to follow the original painter’s lines. After finishing the flowers, she cleaned the doves’ dirty feathers with a coat of fresh white enamel. She brightened the yellow stripes on the tiger’s fur. With a wider brush she splashed blue across the pond, making it sparkle like the one on the back of Father’s rickshaw.

  “I’m finished,” she called out when she was satisfied with the painting.

  The woman came over, and Naima held her breath. Would her work be good enough? “There’s a mistake here and there,” the woman said, patting Naima’s shoulder. “But it’s actually quite good. I’ll fix the mistakes later. Let’s keep working, shall we? We just might complete this order if we both keep going.”

  Naima nodded her agreement. The woman chose another panel from the unfinished stack, and Naima started painting it. She smoothed the curves of petals. She straightened the tips of stars. She tidied the tails of fish. She washed the brush again and again.

  “We did it!” the woman said finally, her voice jubilant. “Ali’s going to be delighted!”

  Naima had touched up four faded panels. The woman had fixed Naima’s mistakes as well as completely cleaning, scraping, and repainting eight panels. Now the dozen panels were spread around the yard to dry. Pearly palaces, pink roses, purple birds, and golden rice paddies

  glowed sloftly in the light of the kerosene lamps.

  Suddenly a rickshaw came riding out of the darkness. To Naima’s amazement, Father jumped off the cycle and strode over to them. In her fierce concentration over her work, she’d forgotten that Father was supposed to come to the shop after his evening route. She’d even forgotten that she was still dressed like a boy. What would Father say when he recognized her?

  “Have you seen a girl—” Father began. Then he caught sight of Naima. For a long minute he stared at her in the dim light, too stunned even to speak. Then: “Naima! You came here alone? Dressed like that? We’ve been frantic with worry. What were you thinking?”

  For the first time ever, Naima heard anger ringing in Father’s voice.

  Twelve

  “DON’T SCOLD HER,” the woman said quickly. “She came here to work in exchange for the repairs on your rickshaw. She wanted to make things right. Not many people are brave enough to try that.”

  “Well, Naima?” Father asked sternly. “I asked you a question.”

  “I—I—” All she could think of was to echo the rickshaw woman’s words. “I wanted to make things right, Father. Because of the rickshaw—that’s why I came.”

  Father’s gaze traveled around the dark yard. “Where is the rickshaw repairman? Why has he kept you here for so long?”

  Naima moved closer to him. “She’s the owner of the shop, Father,” she whispered, tipping her head in the direction of the woman.

  Father was silent. Naima knew he was trying to make sense of what she had just told him. “I heard there was a new repair shop here,” he said finally to the woman. “Is yours the only one?”

  The woman nodded. “My father used to own a shop in this village. And my shop will live up to his motto—'The best work at the best prices.’ See for yourself.”

  “Do, Father,” Naima added softly. “Please.”

  “All right,” Father said. The shock of discovering the woman’s identity seemed to have completely erased his anger.

  He walked around the yard slowly, studying the drying panels. The woman accompanied him, holding the kerosene lantern high. Naima waited nervously beside Father’s rickshaw.

  “Your work is good,” Father said to the woman, when the two of them rejoined Naima. Naima caught the ring of truth in his voice.

  “This isn’t only my work,” the woman said quickly. “Your daughter repainted those four panels. That’s why I kept her here for so long. I wanted to see if she could do it.”

  “You did? She did? I’m not surprised, because she paints—“

  “—the finest alpanas in the village. She told me. I don’t doubt it. Now let me take a look at your rickshaw.”

  The woman fingered the dents and stroked the scratched panels as though the rickshaw were alive. “I can have it ready for you by tomorrow night,” she said. “It will be as good as new—perhaps even better.”

  “How much will it cost?” Father asked, fumbling with the button that fastened the pocket on his shirt. Naima caught her breath.

  “I won’t take money,” the woman said. “I’ll charge you … the price of a promise.”

  “Excuse me?” Father’s fingers came out again, empty. Naima started breathing again.

  “Your daughter’s just the right age to learn the trade,” the woman said. “If you promise to bring her here three or four afternoons a week, I’ll fix your rickshaw in exchange for her labor. And train her on top of it. If she’s a good worker, and our business picks up, I might even start paying her.”

  Naima couldn’t believe her ears. Could this be happening? Had the woman really said “our business"? But then she realized that Father was quiet. He was looking at Naima, almost as if he were asking her a question. Naima didn’t say anything, but she let her longing to take this chance show on her face.

  Father turned back to the woman. “What about your sons?” he asked. “Don’t they want to be trained? They could run the shop for you one day.”

  “My daughters were married years ago. Both are busy with their own lives in faraway villages. I have no sons.”

  “Neither do I,” said Father.

  “But you do have a daughter with talent. And I’d like to train her to paint rickshaws.”

  Naima kept her eyes on Father. He’d always insisted that daughters were as good as sons. Now he had the chance to prove that he meant it. His hand traveled once more toward his pocket, but it stopped in midair, changed direction, and landed on Naima’s shoulder instead. “I’m proud to make such a promise,” he told the woman. “My daughter is a good girl. She learns quickly and will serve you well.”

  Naima’s mind raced ahead to the long afternoon rests Father would take before driving her to the repair shop. A box of new paints, a butter-yellow silk saree, a gray woolen shawl, and a pot of juicy roshogollah paraded before her eyes. She wanted to leap and shout and do a victory dance around the battered rickshaw. She wanted to throw her arms around it and plant kisses on the leather, tin, and tassels. But instead she re
ached for Father’s hand and felt his fingers tighten around hers.

  Thirteen

  “I’LL LET YOU BORROW my rickshaw until tomorrow evening,” the woman said, pointing to the old-fashioned one decorated with advertisements for the shop. “It will be a good way for your village to know that Hassan’s is back in business.”

  “Don’t worry,” said Father. “I’ll tell everybody that you’re as good as your father. He was an honest man and a talented painter.”

  The woman turned to Naima, smiling. “It’s a good thing you turned out to be a girl with plenty of alpana experience. I don’t think I’d have given a boy a chance.”

  The woman’s rickshaw was ancient, but well oiled. Father pedaled hard and they sped through the dark village. It’s a good thing I turned out to be a girl. The words chimed like sitar music in Naima’s mind.

  “How did you know where I was, Father?” Naima asked.

  Father slowed down and threw the words over his shoulder. “I finally tracked Saleem down. It took a while because he’d taken a passenger all the way to the hospital in town.”

  The rickshaw picked up speed again. The wind slapped against Naima’s cheeks and blew her hair loose from her braid. She held tightly to Saleem’s cap so she wouldn’t lose it. They’d come up with their secret-keeping policy in the shade of the banana grove: “Tell only if one of us might be in trouble.” She’d have to borrow Rashida’s white ribbon to use as a signal; she couldn’t wait to see Saleem’s face when he heard her news.

  Mother was awake when they got home. Her eyes widened at the sight of Naima in the borrowed lungee and kurta shirt but she didn’t say anything. Instead she pulled Naima into her lap. She combed out Naima’s tangled hair and re-braided it while Father told her the whole story.