Part I

            Nimmo stretched and rolled on her side, pulling the patchwork quilt over her head.

“Wake up Child,” her mother called for the third time. “Your father has invited a friend. We must have a meal ready before he arrives.”

“Just a litlle longer Mother. It’s still dark outside and cold too.”

Her mother’s eyes rested on her brood of children – seven of them, and the youngest only three years old! They were stretched out on the floor in different stages of slumber.

“Like fish laid out for sale in the market place,” she sighed, “And the eldest ready to go.”

Her eyes lingered on Nimmo, her firstborn. She was like a pink magnolia bursting into bloom in spring.

“I will miss her. But with so many mouths to feed, we need money and she must go to the city to work. There’s not much life left in her father. He keeps coughing at night, and sometimes, he can hardly breathe. All those years of puffing on his bidis have taken their toll.”

She called again. “Nimmo, that’s enough of sleep. Wake up at once.”

The girl arched her back like a lazy cat, and stretched out her long limbs. A sudden growth spurt made her look tall for her age. Her body was filling out too, as she blossomed into adolescence. She rubbed her sleepy eyes and sat up, then folded her quilt, and rolled up her rush mat.  She stood it in the corner, and went out to perform her morning ablutions before the routine chores of the day began.

            She had just finished making the rotis when she heard voices in the courtyard. Her father’s voice was raised in greeting.

“Welcome to our humble hut, Sahib,” he said, as he spread out a mat for the guest.

Her mother left what she was doing, and hurried out too.

            Nimmo peeped through the solitary window. The three of them were talking in hushed tones. The man raised his head, and she froze when she recognized him.

“This is the same man I saw at the water tap. He was trying to make conversation with all of us. I didn’t like the way he looked us up and down and smiled, as though harbouring some secret.”

Her mother called. “Nimmo, bring some tea for our guest.”

            She put two thick rotis on an aluminum plate with a spoonful of potato sabzi, and a tall glass of milky tea. She didn’t like the way his eyes followed her, and travelled up and down her body. He grinned, revealing a bit of silver on his front tooth. She was both repulsed and frightened.

“How did my father make his acquaintance?” she wondered, “And why is he here so early in the day?

She went indoors and refused to come out again. But when he was gone, she accosted her mother.

“Who is that man? He was at the water tap two days ago, and was trying to act familiar with all of us.”

“He’s just trying to help. You know how poor we are. Your father is so weak, he can’t work for long. This man has made some suggestions. ……But you don’t have to worry. Let’s leave it to your father.”

            The village was in a lush valley near the Indo-Nepalese border. From her courtyard, on a clear day she could see the peaks of the Kanchenjunga. The family owned a few yaks, and a small patch of land on which grew apples and peaches. But it barely supported them. Nimmo’s father was a labourer in the orchards and farms of the rich. But come winter, life in the hills was at a standstill for three whole months. It was a hard life. Except for the two youngest children, everyone had to work. Sometimes, there wasn’t enough food to go around, and the children would grow fretful.

            But Nimmo had a way about her. She knew how to make her siblings laugh when they wanted to cry. Sometimes, she took them along to the house of a reclusive writer, who had made his home in their village. She cooked and cleaned for him. He gave her a decent salary, and allowed her to take home surplus food which he couldn’t finish. In his spare time, he taught Nimmo and the elder children how to read and write. Many evenings, after the lesson, he would tell them a story he had just written, carefully listening to their comments. Gregory Sahib was a writer of children’s stories, and they loved him. He brought sunshine into their lives.

            The man with the silver tooth called at their hut three times. On each occasion, Nimmo saw him whispering to her parents, who nodded their agreement to whatever he said.

Her mother never confided in her anymore. After each visit, she grew more silent. Sometimes, Nimmo caught her wiping her eyes. On his last visit, money had changed hands. She saw her father eagerly grab the bundle from the man, who bellowed like the burp of a gluttonous hyena, and thumped her father on his back.

“What is Father doing?” she wondered, “Is the man a money lender? Will we ever be able to pay him back?”

            That evening, she trudged up the hill to Gregory Sahib’s house by herself. She would have to tell him about this horrible man who had been dropping by so frequently. But there was a lock on the door. The watchman said that the writer had received good news about his book, and had gone to Delhi to find out more.

            That night, when the other children were asleep, Nimmo’s parents called her outside.

“Nimmo, we have good news for you. The man, who has been visiting us, has found a job for you in the city. You are to work in the house of a rich lady, who will not only look after you, but pay you a good salary. You can keep some pocket money for yourself, and ask her to send the rest to us. If you don’t like the job, you can come back after six months.”

            Nimmo burst into tears. “I don’t trust that man, Mother. He has a wicked look in his eyes.  I don’t want to go….. I’ll miss my brothers and sisters.”

“Enough of that,” said her father gruffly, “You better pack your things quickly, and I’ll take you down to the bus stop. He will be waiting there. This wouldn’t have happened if I had a grown-up son. But the Gods have cursed me – four daughters in a row, then a son who keeps falling ill all the time, and then two more girls. You’re not good for farm work. You could do a better job cooking and cleaning for the lady.”

“But I’m already working for Gregory Sahib and he pays well.”

“The lady will pay enough to support the whole family. Now you behave well with the man. He is very kind.”

            Between sobs, Nimmo bundled the two threadbare saris and blouses she possessed. She reached up under the eaves and found her comb, a broken piece of mirror, and a round tin with her trinkets. She slipped two red plastic bangles on her hands.

“I’m taking my quilt, Mother,” she said, “At least I’ll have something to hold on to when I’m homesick.”

It was a multicoloured patchwork quilt, put together crudely with coarse stitches, and had taken almost a year to finish. She had collected scraps of cloth from the tailor’s shop, whenever she went to the marketplace.

“I wonder if I’ll ever see you all again,” she sobbed, bending down to kiss her sleeping siblings. Then she hugged her mother, who quietly slipped a small pouch into her hands. It contained her last salary from Gregory Sahib.

            Her father coughed and spluttered all the way down to the bus stop, but never said a word to her.

“It’s all because of him,” she thought angrily, “Can’t do a man’s work and support his family.”

She remembered the times when the Public Health nurse had visited their hut and advised him to stop smoking those infernal bidis.  She even scolded him for having a hut full of children, who were all weak and skinny.

“Do I have to leave home to pay for his stupidity?” she wondered. “If only I were a boy!”

            To her surprise, three of her friends were also waiting at the bus stop. Their faces were swollen from crying. Each exclaimed on seeing her, “Has the man found a job for you too?”

“Yes, my parents say he’s a kind man. He has seen how poor we are, and has found a way to help our families.”

            Ram Ghising, for that was his name, walked jauntily down the road, his Nepalese cap tilted to a rakish angle on his head.  His silver tooth shone under the rays of the street lamp.

“I’m glad you are all here. Now get into the bus, all of you. No giggling or jabbering. No crying either. You must get some sleep on the bus tonight. We’ll reach the plains only at dawn. There we’ll catch the Express train to Bombay.”

            Sleep was long in coming. It was Goodbye to the hills, and to all the people Nimmo loved and cared about. If only she could have bid farewell to Gregory Sahib! He would think her ungrateful to have left without a word.

            The girls, though worried over their future, took comfort from the fact that they had each other. They slept fitfully, waking up each time to make sure that they were all together.

            By early morning, they had reached the plains. Being unaccustomed to the heat, they began to fidget and grumble. Ram Ghising herded them into the train and cautioned,

“Take care that you don’t chat with people in your compartment. It will take a little over two days to reach our destination. Be on your best behaviour. I’ll be watching.”

            He had booked berths for them in a three tier compartment, and arranged for meals to be served periodically on the train. However, he travelled in a diferent compartment, and kept his distance. The girls noticed that at every major stop, he would walk past the compartment to check if they were all there.

“Are you all sisters?” asked a lady in the compartment, “Where are you going? Are you travelling by yourselves?”

The other three girls knew a smattering of Hindi, but as Gregory Sahib had been teaching Nimmo to read and write, she could speak well. But she remained silent.

“If that man comes to know I have talked to the lady, who knows what punishment he’ll have in store for me!”

            However, she listened intently to the conversation of the other passengers. The talk was mostly uninteresting. There was one couple however, who sat in a corner and kept staring at them.

“Hm! Nepali girls!” she snorted,”We know where they are heading. Do you think they have run away from home? Going to the big, bad city to earn a living, I presume. What kind of greedy, irresponsible parents they must have!”

            Nimmo almost lashed out at the woman. Then she remembered she was not to utter a word. But the woman continued talking.

“Dear, do you think we should inform the police when we get off the train?”

Nimmo froze. “Good God! What is going to happen to us? Where is the evil man taking us?”

She pulled out the quilt from her bag and draped it around her shoulders. Suddenly, she began to shiver, though everybody else was grumbling about the heat.

“Nimmo, why are you shivering? Are you feeling ill?” the other girls worried.

“No, just homesick. I’ll be alright. Don’t worry.”

But she couldn’t get over the uncomfortable feeling that something terrible was going to happen to them all.

            When they alighted in Bombay very early on the third day, Nimmo looked around for the lady who threatened to call the police. But Ram Ghising whisked them off even before many passengers could reach for their luggage. They drove in a taxi for a very long time, until they left the city and reached a distant suburb.

“What a wonderful city!” one of the girls exclaimed, “And so many people!”

“The cars and buses are making my head spin,” said another.

“And see those posters – Sharukh Khan and Rani – They showed that movie in our Cinema hall. They live in Bombay. I wonder if I’ll get to see them drive past in their cars.”

Only Nimmo remained silent. A deep sadness enveloped her.

“Will I ever go home again,” she wondered. “Mother said I could return after six months if I didn’t like the job. But will Ram Ghising ever let me?”

.....to be continued