Read by Nicholas Delvalle
The monsoon is weeks late, and the whole city feels it. Hawkers swelter in the shade of the walkways outside Mumbai Central station, skinny fingers dripping lurid jewellery. Scabby, lean dogs lie heaving in the orange dust. And Martin Price lies on a sagging mattress older than himself in the Salvation Army Hostel on Chhapatri Street, watching the ceiling-fan stir boiling-soup air.
Gandhi’s gnomelike face gurns up from his last grubby coral-coloured banknote. 1000 rupees: about £11. Today's the final day of this simmering, sweat-soaked, dust-choked, beggar-crowded hell, and it'll have to last him to the airport. Luckily Sarah prebooked and prepaid the taxi months back: she's like that. But until then, this is all he has. Enough for lunch, a drink, and emergencies. It'll have to do.
*
Outside, standing opposite the hostel entrance, lukewarm lemonade in one hand and cigarette in the other, Martin notices the little girl he's seen begging on this side-street a few times now. Yesterday, out of change, he gave her a packet of crisps and that was evidently a mistake, because her brown eyes sparkle when she sees him. She’s usually alone, but today she carries a huge-eyed toddler on her hip: clearly her younger brother. Martin winces inwardly. She's marked him as a soft touch, but he can’t help her this time: it's his thousand-rupee note or nothing. He shakes his head, shrugging sorry as she holds out her hand: he doesn't even have any food. Back home, he usually palms beggars off with a cigarette, but she’s, what, five?
The little boy stares at Martin with unhurried curiosity as the sister pesters him. Her English vocabulary is extremely limited, consisting mostly of the word “Please” in different tones of voice: polite, then beseeching, and acquiring an angry edge, like he's holding out on her, as he finishes his fag and moves away. He’s resentful, indignant: why him? He's done his bit already. Can't she leave him alone?
He waves apologetically, and walks off in the direction of the station: maybe he’ll visit the local museum on the way (it's free after all, and they must have aircon)? But when he turns to get his bearings he's astonished to see her following close behind, baby brother slung awkwardly on her hip, small face pinched with determination. He pretends not to notice her, quickening his pace. He'll probably shake her in the next few streets. If she's got any sense she'll either give up or latch on to someone else. It's tough, like getting rid of a hopeful stray following you home, but today’s just not her day. Surely she’ll get the message?
But she doesn't. The intense heat means the normally bustling streets are deserted, and instead of heading towards Mumbai Central he’s somehow got turned around, walking down sunbeaten dusty streets full of rubbish and skinny, slinking cats rather than the heaving thoroughfares he was hoping to lose her in. As the streets get emptier and longer, she lags further and further behind, starting to tire now: but she keeps following.
The little boy she carries is more than half her size: he must be very heavy, Martin realises. She could put her brother down, but then she would lose her quarry: the toddler would never be able to keep up the pace. And she's come so far already, invested so much energy: she has to make this effort pay, or it's all been for nothing. Well tough, he thinks angrily, sweating and thirsty by this point (the heat makes you mad, it makes you cruel). It's a battle of wills now, and he won't be the first to blink. She shouldn't have pushed her luck: she should've cut her losses. When I say I don't have any money, I don't.
Not so, whispers Gandhi gently from his hip pocket – but that thousand-rupee note doesn't count. If he had a fifty, even a hundred or two, he'd gladly give it to her, but she's hardly going to have change for a thousand and he needs something for himself. For lunch, and drinks, and cigarettes, and … He looks around for a shop or drink shack, somewhere to buy a water, and get change, but there's nothing.
She brightens as he stops, increasing her pace, almost running towards him, the toddler jogging on her hip like a cowboy riding a bronco. He lifts his arms as if to defend himself, shooing her dementedly, but she stands square before him, stubbornly uncomprehending. They lock eyes for a moment, and he looks away first, setting off again at a race-walk, determined to outpace her this time, determined not to give in. Who does she think he is? Not all foreigners are rich. Why won't she understand?
At the corner of the next street – a good five minutes later – he turns. Unbelievably, she's still following, visibly struggling now under the weight of the child, the hope in her bearing almost bled out. When he turns again at the next corner, she's nowhere to be seen.
*
Years later when he talks about it – for nothing else really happened out there except breaking up with Sarah, and everyone who's been to India needs an India story – he tells everyone how he goes back and finds the little girl. He digs the tatty thousand-rupee note out of his pocket – maybe the most money she's seen in her life – and after following her down the long dusty road, catching her easily because of the burden of the kid she carries, gives it to her. And she grins a blinding gap-toothed smile, her patience rewarded at last, and skips away.
After a while, he starts to believe it himself.
(c) Abigail Lee, 2016
Abigail Lee writes a lot, and crosses out even more. Her story Maryam’s Prayer was read at the Kith & Kin Christmas event and she has flash fiction forthcoming in Noun and X+1. She is starting to really enjoy this short fiction lark: contact is [email protected] (no website)
Nicholas Delvallé trained at Bristol Old Vic Theatre School. Since leaving he’s toured Austria with Vienna’s English Theatre; performed in All’s Well that Ends Well and Anne Boleyn at Shakespeare’s Globe; played Mercutio in Romeo and Juliet by Theatre Sotto Voce, understudied in the National Theatre’s production of A Small Family Business and most recently played Ferdinand/Antonio in The Tempest at the Southwark Playhouse.
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