“I think you have something,” he said when she was done.
“I don’t. It’s just an idea.”
“Why don’t you try writing it?”
“I’m not a writer. It comes off bland and emotionless on the paper. I want to do it justice.” She yawned again. “I should go. It’s late.”
He walked her down, put her in a cab, paid the driver, and secured her agreement to come back the following night. He tried to go to bed himself, but sleep would not come. He either tossed and turned or studied the skylight over his bed. The window provided a framed visual of stars lighting the universe. He traced the scar across his abdomen. Finally, he closed his eyes, only to snap them open a few seconds later. The snippet of the tale she’d told replayed like a record set on repeat. She had the right words, but maybe not the adjectives and connectors to drive it home. Finally, at one in the morning, he flipped off the covers and staggered to the writing desk.
Nick cracked his knuckles as he regarded his once friend and now foe—the blinking cursor. But this time, a new energy coursed through him. Before he could give the idea much contemplation, he began typing.
Her story flowed through his fingers as they tapped and whirled on the keyboard in a frantic pace. The connection between his hands and brain lacked any hesitation. The words came effortlessly as they once did. She was the composer, he was the conductor, and the story was the music. It was a rough draft for sure, but he’d filled in the blank spaces and colored her outline. He saved it under his drafts with the working title Asha’s story by Shyla Metha.
He swallowed, wondering what her reaction would be. Would she appreciate his help? Nick Dorsey had many critics. Perhaps they even outnumbered his admirers. His work experienced both hail and ridicule in some of the most prestigious media outlets by professional editors, passionate readers, and even celebrities, but he’d never been as nervous about a review as right then.
Chapter 6
Asha’s story
Nalini Mistry hadn’t planned the long hike to the neighboring village to purchase vegetables, but she’d woken with one simple goal—to make her husband happy. The calluses on her feet throbbed with the extra steps she took, but it was worth it, because the farmer would have the cauliflower she needed to make Deval’s favorite dish.
Their lives had taken on a dark depression since their only child, Dipesh, died the year before at the tender age of twenty. The image of her sweet boy caused a tear to slide down her weathered face. This would have been the year of the bride search. Now, she would never welcome a daughter-in-law into their home. Instead, Depal and she lived a lonely life, mourning their son and cursing the malaria for taking him away.
As if the melancholy wasn’t enough, the burdens of heavy debt created further misery. They had called a doctor when Dipesh fell ill, draining their modest savings. Deval had purchased a new truck in preparation for his son taking over his route. In every village family, there was a passing of the torch where the sons go from beloved child to family provider. This was the time for Dipesh to take over his duties and for Nalini and Depal to enjoy old age. A time to welcome a daughter-in-law into their house and, most of all, grandchildren, more sons to bless their home.
They had always lived in shades of poverty, but before they could manage to purchase nice things on occasion. A new sari for Nalini, a television a few years back, and tobacco for Depal, but now every day was a struggle. As if to cement her fears, she stepped into a pile of mud. Unfortunately, it wasn’t mud.
She tried to scrape off the foul-smelling substance from her sandal, but it was no use. The smell followed her, taunting her misfortune. Finally, she walked to the river to wash it off.
The river was high from recent rains. Its long channel flowed through several villages, providing an important fresh water source. Nalini washed the stench from her shoe. A memory of her son playing along these banks flashed through her mind.
Why did you do this to me, God? The emotion of the question crumpled her composure. She wept tears so fat and salty they flowed with the same urgency as the water. Grief was an indulgence she could not afford. At home, she tried to be strong for her husband, but here alone with her solemn thoughts she was able to mourn freely. The pain poured out in her unanswered wails.
Except she wasn’t alone.
Another cry merged with hers. The voice, a loud screeching scream, silenced Nalini. She looked to the west and east along the riverbank, but didn’t see anything. Then she looked across from her. The invading sounds emerged from a small wooden box caught in the thicket. The kind of container they packed cashews in for export. She took off both sandals, lifted her sari, and waded across the river, trying to keep her skinny legs steadfast against the current.
She ran her fingers along the crude puncture holes at the top of the box. She lifted the lid, saying a silent prayer for its occupant. The sight of the newborn baby nestled inside a dirty blanket wrenched her heart. Nalini carefully lifted the child. Who would do this to a baby?
She lifted the material covering the child and confirmed her suspicions—a baby girl.
An unwanted girl.
Nalini rocked the baby gently and sang to her. The wails softened until the infant quieted completely. Then she carefully gathered water in her palm and cleaned the child as best as she could. She tore off a length of her sari. Carefully, she wrapped the child in it. She watched as the waters carried the dirty blanket downstream.
What shall I do with you, precious one?
Nalini wasn’t one to ponder for long. She was a woman of action. The city was even farther than the next village. She’d have to set the baby down to rest along the way. She didn’t want to take the wicked box, but leaving the baby on the dirty road was not an option either. She placed the infant back inside and cooed softly to her.
She walked with the child for five kilometers toward the city. The stench of decadence and decay filled her nostrils, signaling she’d arrived. The place struck an unnatural fear in her with its fast traffic, crowded streets, and many dangers. There were beggars, including many children. One girl who couldn’t be more than eight wore a ripped frock and held a baby of her own. Although the infant was real, she carried it like a doll. That’s what it was…a prop to garner sympathy and additional coins. She gazed at the box in her arms. Would this baby suffer the same fate? Not if she had anything to do with it. This child would be raised in the suitable hands of someone who loved her.
Nalini asked five pedestrians before an elderly woman pointed her to the local hospital. The formidable building hummed with activity as people moved with frantic speed. Everyone passed her, ignoring her inquiry for help. Some even shoved her. Her kind wasn’t welcome. She resembled someone who would more likely clean the hospital than be a prospective patient.
She grabbed a doctor’s coat. He pulled away, his harsh look of disdain causing her to wince. “Doctor, sir, I found this baby. I don’t know what to do.” She spoke in a villager’s dialect he didn’t understand. His teeth clenched in frustration as he glanced at the baby.
He pointed to a large desk in the corner of the room where a lady mid-yawn handed out badges to a long line of visitors. Shuffling slowly, she took in the huge sign above. Not that it did much good since she couldn’t read. By the time she reached the front of the queue, the attendant didn’t even bother covering her mouth during the next yawn. Speaking without taking a single breath, Nalini managed to explain how she’d come into possession of the baby. At least the impatient young woman appeared to understand her.
The woman stood up and peered down at the child from behind the counter. “She looks healthy. We don’t take non-paying patients.”
“But she’s not mine. She needs a home.”
“We are a hospital, not an orphanage.”