This story, “Naani’s Song”, was published in Spring’2019 issue of the Metafore Magazine. The story is inspired by a train journey in India. Posting the story here and also the link:
The rhythm of the train ride lulls me. My daughter, Diya, shakes my shoulder, “Mama, listen. Naani’s song.”
My eyes are sleep-stung after the long flight from Chicago to New Delhi, but hers are wide, wandering, as she gazes out the train window. We are, now, traveling to my sister’s place.
Diya was five when she last visited India. She hid her face in my scarf when anyone tried to talk to her. The shyness peeled off, layer after layer, year after year. Today, she is a peppy 11-year-old − hungry for the sights, sounds, and the snacks being toted by vendors inside the train. I’ve given her some money to spend.
My daughter is right about the song. Some woman is singing aloud “Chalte chalte mere ye geet,” a Bollywood number that my mother used to hum while cooking. I play it in my kitchen when I miss her.
The singer enters our coach, filling it with an odor of her unwashed body. She is a young woman, draped in a green sari with its end pulled over her head and face so that only her singing lips are visible. A baby girl, with dirty hair and sad eyes, clings to her left hip.
The song is a romantic duet about two lovers promising to be together in the journey of life. It’s a good choice for a train audience, I think, but this woman is mutilating the song, stretching its happy tune into melancholy.
At the end of her performance, she holds out her hand in front of each passenger. The baby follows her cue and stretches her mud-ridged palm out. Some passengers avert their gaze, some place money in her hand or the baby’s.
I am seething. Why is this woman violating my mother’s song? Why is she exploiting the baby to harness people’s compassion?
When the singer reaches us, Diya places some money on the singer’s palm. She also gives a chips packet to the baby. The woman folds her hands into a namaste and moves on.
“Her baby must be hungry,” Diya whispers.
My daughter wants my validation. I smooth her hair. I don’t tell her anything; she’ll learn with time.
The train slows down as it approaches the next station. Diya is asleep on my shoulder.
The singer alights. At the platform, she lights a beedi and walks briskly to a tea-stall. I watch as she hands the baby over to another young woman wearing a magenta sari. This woman places the baby on her left hip and strides towards the train.
Glossary:
Naani: maternal grandmother
chalte chalte mere ye geet: Always remember my songs in the journey of life
beedi: a type of cheap cigarette made of unprocessed tobacco wrapped in leaves
namaste: a respectful greeting in India
