A Friend Indeed

Light entered only through the kitchen window in that dingy New York apartment. The rest was like a dark cave. Shila spent most of her days in front of the sink, beneath that window doing dishes. She couldn’t trust the portable dishwasher that came with this apartment; not because it made an awful noise but as soon as she plugged it one day, it started gushing suds and foam like a dying animal.

Shila didn’t dare to call her husband at work. She looked out the window. No one was there. “What a lonely place without a single friend!” She murmured with a sigh. Why did we come here? 

Helpless and scared, she dialed the apartment manager. He stopped it but commented with a smirk, “Wrong soap. You got to use dishwashing detergent, lady, not dish soap.” 

The way he raised his voice, ‘Lady! Not dish soap’ with a look eyeing her sari-clad figure from top to toe and toe to top made Shila droop her head and stare at her own toes. 

I’d never forget that look — as if it was clear what a stupid woman I was. Would this illiterate smart alec believe that I could give him a lesson on Queue theory in Econometrics? I am not a fool, I just never had an experience with dishwashers — that’s all. Blood rushed to her face.

But she kept it to herself, instead, thanked him profusely with smiles before shutting the door. After washing the floor, mopping and drying she rolled the dishwasher back to its original corner, draped a Rajasthani fabric with mirrors over it and put a vase with yellow flowers vowing never to open its face again. 

“Why do these people have so many detergents, soaps and cleaning liquids here? Why do they care for so many boxes of cereal? There are too many choices. Doesn’t that paralyze these people?” She shouted, though no one was there to hear. 

Wiping hands on a towel, she gaped with an utter shock that her precious manicure and the fuchsia nail polish were gone. Her nails were broken, jagged. Her hands were bleeding, fingers cracked like sun-dried prunes.

***

Outside, she found the tree that was robust with yellow-ochre and copper colored leaves had become all bare in one night. The golden leaves dropped on the ground as the wind picked up. They fell on top of a junk pile of broken bottles and cans. The heater inside the apartment growled, blasting hot dry air through the radiators. 

An old man in a black parka stretched out leaning against a wall near the heap. The wall had strange drawings and scribbles. English letters scrolled in swirly circular motifs framed images of skulls. She had seen drawings, messages and slogans on walls in her country, especially before the voting time. But this was different.  

A metal cart with wheels and a logo of a nearby grocery store held a large black plastic bag. The cart was parked next to the old man.

She had seen people using this kind of cart in the stores here for shopping, which was an unfamiliar thing to her. Back home, in her tiny town in India, there were only jute bags that you needed to remember bringing from home.

Who is this man? Could he be homeless? That cart is his home? An American beggar? Her brows furrowed. She tiptoed to see more, narrowing her eyes to focus — Is it possible?

***

One day it snowed. Tiny white flakes like petals of jasmine started showering from the sky. No, something softer. Whisper soft. It dusted the car roofs and sidewalks. But there was no sound. 

Jaya, her daughter, was glued to her favorite show on the television where a man every day entered a house. He took off his green cardigan and his shoes and brought out his make believe world of puppets and marionettes. A toy trolley circled on a tabletop with a jingling tune.  

“It’s snowing, Jaya. It’s snowing.” Shila exclaimed.

“Really! How? Where?” Jaya came running to the kitchen. Shila held her up to show through the window. 

“Let’s go!” She grabbed Jaya and ran downstairs. 

The snow dusted on their hair, their arms, shoes, even on their tongues when Shila opened her mouth, copying Jaya. She could even taste the snow. Shila held Jaya’s hands and danced, swirling like a little girl. Jaya ran to a corner where there was a heap and she made snowballs, throwing them to her mom. And they had a snow fight. Shila picked up a handful and let it rain. It glittered like dazzling diamonds. She had seen nothing so beautiful, so fragile. 

Jaya started singing — “It’s a beautiful day in the neighborhood, a beautiful day in the neighborhood,.. will you be mine, will you be mine, won’t you be my neighbor!” 

A clap of applause came from that old man, who joined her in the singing. “Won’t you be my neighbor?” They both giggled at the same time. 

“What’s your name, neighbor?” The man asked. 

“Jaya, and you?” 

“Bertrand, they call me Bert.”

“Ok, Mr. B.” Jaya replied.

*** 

“Mama, can we have some ice cream from that store?” Jaya pleaded. 

“Ice cream in this cold? Well, why not?” They crossed the street and got two cones. 

“Can we buy one for Mr. B?” Jaya looked up. 

“Well, why not?”  

Jaya ran to give him the ice cream cone. He was happy. His tiny eyes twinkled. 

“Where are you going, Mr. B?” Jaya asked as he was preparing to roll his cart. He waved his hand in the air.

“You look funny Mr. B with snow on your beard, hee hee.” Jaya giggled. 

“Wish I could be Santa Claus.”

But Jaya had no sense of Santa Claus then. So she knitted her brows, “What?” Then with a pause whispered to her mom, “He is funny!” 

***

When Asim came home Jaya came running.” Papa, Papa, it snowed today.” She jumped up and down. Asim picked her up. “Really!”

“Yes, it did. And we made snowballs. Mama and me. And danced. Mama too, and Mr. B. sang too. And Mama bought me an ice cream cone and Mr. B. too.” Jaya covered everything in one breath.

“Now who is this Mr. B?”

That man, the old man with crinkly white hair, who sits over there, always wearing the black coat. Over there.” She pointed. 

Asim put her down and looked at his wife with cross brows. Squeezing his nose up, he murmured, “Are you crazy, Shila?”

Shila brought Asim a cup of hot tea, “How come so late today?” She asked. 

“Oh, they blocked the roads, Traffic horrendous… It’s just the beginning. SNOW! So romantic…” He rolled his eyes, taking off the long coat. 

***  

The blow was hardest when Asim came home and declared that he got a pink slip. 

“Pink slip? What’s that?” Shila knitted her brows and came to learn that her husband had lost his job. 

“These people are ruthless. No sense of loyalty.” Asim yanked out his tie and threw it across the room. After a pause added, 

“Who lives in a freaking place like this? Nongra, filthy, New York. Full of homeless muggers!” He squeezed his nose and plopped on the sofa with a pout.

After a cup of hot masala chai with lots of sugar, cream and cardamom and some fresh samosas, he calmed down. Craning his arm on his wife’s neck he turned to her,

“Whatever happens happens for a good reason. Isn’t it Shila? We should move to California, to the West coast.” Shila stared at his face with her doe eyes, clueless. He understood.

“Silly girl!” He moved the lock that hung over her brows and kissed her forehead. “Remember the picture of the orange bridge? That’s Golden Gate. And that zig zag road near the ocean? That’s Highway One, near Big Sur. All in California. We must go there.” Shila trembled inside but got carried away with those dreamy eyes of her husband. She remembered her father’s words - ‘The man has ambition. He’ll rise to the top.’

***

Asim told Shila that the best plan would be for him to go alone now in search of jobs and potential interviews in California. “Just a week,” he snapped his fingers, “no matter what, I’ll come back to get you and Jaya.”

***

A week later, that night when Asim picked up his kitbag, ready to go to California, Shila felt hollow.

“Stay safe. Don’t spend too much time with that…” He stopped in the middle and took a long breath, “with that homeless hobo, okay?” He held her chin up and kissed.

What choice do I have, in case I need it? You will be away! But she didn’t spit it out. She kept it to herself like a good, gentle wife. She stared out at the rectangular void of that kitchen window. It was dark. She glanced at the ground, nodding yes.

***

After he left Shila sensed Jaya’s body felt warm. Is she coming down with a fever?   Shila panicked and hyperventilated. She couldn’t sleep. There was no choice other than praying hard. 

Next morning when Jaya was chirpy and ready for school, Shila felt groggy. There was nothing wrong with Jaya and Shila thanked her God for listening to her prayers. But after seeing her off to the school bus Shila decided that she should go buy a thermometer.

She knew that here the pharmacy was not the place where they sold such things. Back home she’d have to ask the pharmacist, and he’d bring it from inside. But here she’d have to go to a drugstore and find herself. 

Shila took a right turn on the street from their building and was sure the next crossing was where she’d have to take another right and the departmental store would be right there. She found the store but didn’t realize it was so gigantic. There were apples, bananas, milk, greeting cards, soaps and dog food, everything under one roof, but no thermometer. 

A youthful man in a red apron approached, “May I help you, Ma’am?”

“A thermometer, please. Do you have it?”

“What? Say that again.”

“Thermometer. To measure heat, body heat, child’s body heat.”

He shook his head, “Sorry! No.”

Feeling disheartened, Shila picked up a loaf of bread, a bunch of bananas and a carton of milk, thinking she’d need them, anyway.

Paying and exiting the door, she found the place looked different. It was at the other end of the store and after walking half a block in the opposite direction she felt strange.

Cars and taxis whizzed by. There were few people walking in this gloomy neighborhood. Shila stopped and looked around. Sensing her confusion, two adolescent men or teenagers remarked something, laughing. 

One of them was a black boy with kinky afro hair, like a halo over his head, the other one was a white boy with a shaved crown except for a spike in the middle like a dinosaur’s back. 

Shila walked as fast as she could. Her heart pounded. She felt hot even though the air was misty and chilly. No matter how fast she walked, they caught up. She could feel they were right behind her. One gave a blow and yanked her grocery bag. Shila hugged her purse, grabbing it close to her chest. “Go away!” She screamed. 

Just then a deep voice bellowed, 

“Cut it out.” 

It was Mr. B. He waved his hand to Shila pointing to walk in the other direction guarding her. He stood in front of those boys, feet apart, hands on waist. He yelled something that sounded like English, though Shila couldn’t understand a word. The boys turned and disappeared.

Later, Mr. B. caught up and turned to her, “You okay, Ma’am?”

“Yes, yes.” Shila was almost home.

“Where were you going, Miz.? May I ask?”

“Oh, I went to buy a thermometer. I thought my daughter, Jaya, was coming down with a fever.”

“Miss Jay sick?”

“No, no, not yet. Just in case.”

“Oh, that’s better. So what did you want to buy, Ma’am?”

“Thermometer. That measures body heat, temperature.” 

“A — h!  Ther- MO-meter.” He had a belly laugh. Ho.ho.ho. “I am hearing the therm-meter. Ther- m-mitter. Of course. I can buy that for you, Ma’am if you want me to.”

“Will you please? They don’t understand my English, I don’t understand theirs…” Shila gave him a ten-dollar bill.

Mr. B. nodded with a downcast serious face, then turned around keeping the money in his pocket and waved goodbye. In a short while he returned and rang the doorbell. He handed her the thermometer with a small bottle of children’s Tylenol and a handful of change. “In case you need the medicine.”

“Thank you so much, Mr. B. Please keep the change. Buy yourself an ice cream cone or something.” Shila grinned.

“Ice cream is no fun without Miss Jay.” He unloaded the change from his pocket on the table. The coins clattered. Then he took a long breath and sniffed, squinting his eyes. 

“What are you cooking? Smells so good.”

“Please eat with me, Mr. B? Will you?  Maria, Jaya’s friend, invited her for pizza. I’m not so fond of pizza,  But I hate to eat alone.” She invited Mr. B., and he nodded with glee.

***

While Shila was warming up the food in the kitchen Mr. B drew a beautiful pen and ink sketch on the back of the receipt — Madonna and child

Shila was awestruck and asked him many questions about his art while Mr. B. relished the food with eyes closed muttering, “Umm,mm!”

She came to know that Mr. B. was an artist in his salad days, but he didn’t want to say more.

The following day the sun shone, stretching wide arms ready to embrace Mother Earth. That’s exactly what Jaya was drawing muttering her story on a sizable piece of paper. She gave it to 

Mr. B. 

***

A month later Asim came back and decided it was time to take his family to California. He got a job. A suitable job. 

When it was time to say goodbye Jaya held the teddy bear Maria and her mom Esmeralda had gifted her with a saying on its chest — I love NY.

Shila held the Madonna sketch on the

back of the receipt showing it to Mr. B. that she’d treasure it.

“One day she’ll frame it.” Esmeralda teased. 

Looking at Shila’s tear-streaked face, Asim shook his head, wondering — what could Shila find in New York to become so emotional.

2438 words.