by Neilay Kahsnabish
“I want that parrot,” the girl said and grasped the wrist of her mother.
“Which one?” the mother asked.
“That one,” the girl said and pointed to it with her tiny index finger. She then put her finger into her mouth, thought for a while and looked at her mother’s face.
“Don’t bite your nail,” the mother said and forcefully pulled her finger out.
“I want that parrot.”
There was a little parrot in the cage. The green fur covering its body looked so fresh and delicate, and the yellowish tint on its neck made it look more beautiful. Its red beak protruded from the cage. Its round eyes timidly observed people.
“Let’s see other things first.”
“If someone else buys the parrot before us?”
“The fair has just begun. No one will buy it now.”
“If somebody else likes the parrot?”
“The seller uncle will have many parrots at his home. He’ll bring some other parrot tomorrow.”
“I want this parrot.”
The middle-aged parrot seller, who was wearing a red turban, heard their conversation.
“Only one! Only one!” he said aloud.
The fair was already crowded. The flute seller in their opposite was demonstrating different flutes in front of his customers. The shrill sound of the flutes blended with the surrounding noise of the crowd.
“Look at that,” the mother said.
A woman sat with handmade miniature windmills on a blue plastic mattress on the ground.
“Come on, let’s see that,” the mother said.
“What about the parrot?”
“You wanted a windmill toy last year, didn’t you?”
The girl didn’t say anything, looked at the parrot one or two times and followed her mother with her tiny steps.
“What’s the price, aunty?” the mother asked the woman.
“Fifty rupees per toy, baideu.”
The windmills were made from bamboo, and their colorful blades were from thin paper. The blades of all the windmills were rotating in unison.
“Will it last long?” the mother asked the woman, touching the colorful blade.
“At least a year, baideu. Should I pack it?” she looked at her curiously.
Perhaps they were her first customer of the day. The mother looked at her daughter, and the girl nodded yes. The woman then wrapped it in a newspaper and put it in a corrugated plastic bag and held the bag in front of the girl, smiling. The bag was an oversized one for the girl. When they walked, its bottom marked on soil. She didn’t care about it and walked with her mother.
Now both got the mouth-watering smell of panipuri, and the girl whispered to her mother, “Panipuri, ma.”
Two people were serving panipuri to their customers. Their hands were moving like machines. The mother and her daughter stood in the queue, and after some time, their turn came.
“Sweet or sour?” the seller asked, while mashing the potatoes up with his bare hand.
“Sour for me. Sweet for her,” the mother said.
“I’ll also eat sour ones,” the girl said.
“No. Keep silent,” the mother said.
“Chili?” the seller asked.
“Not much,” she said.
The girl saw a boy standing opposite to them with his father. They already had panipuri, and now his father held the wallet to pay the seller. The boy was older than the girl. He and his father wore white kurtas. The girl looked at her mother. Her mother wore a green sari. Its color was faded. Her frock was also old. It was pinkish, and its color was also faded. She slightly moved towards the wooden table. The table was covered with a red piece of cloth, and two giant pots, filled up with tamarind water, were kept on the table. Now she couldn’t see the boy because of the table.
“Take it,” the seller said to the girl.
The girl now hastily held forward the bowl of dry leaves. The seller put the panipuri in the bowl. The panipuri was so big for her. She wondered how people put one panipuri at a time into their mouths. She silently sat on the wooden stool. She broke the panipuri and began to eat slowly.
“I’ve eaten ten of them, and you’re still sitting with one!” the mother said after a while.
“It’s so sweet,” the girl said and smiled.
“Eat it fast. We’ve to see the entire fair.”
“My parrot?” the girl asked.
The mother didn’t answer her. She stood in front her, staring at the panipuri, her hands on her waist.
After paying the panipuri vendor, they went to a cosmetics shop. Different cosmetics were arranged in rows on the plastic mattress on the ground. The shop was crowded with village women and girls. Somehow, they could make their way through the crowd. They hunkered down on the ground and started browsing through the rows.
“What’ll you buy, ma?”
“Bindi.”
“I also want a bindi.”
“Please give two packets of this bindi.”
“Lipstick, ma?”
“No. We already have one.”
“That’s old.”
“These colors aren’t good.”
“We’ve more varieties, baideu,” the seller said.
“No. No. No need,” the mother replied quickly.
The mother paid money to the seller and came out of the shop with her daughter.
“Ma?”
“Now what?”
“Parrot.”
“Parrots aren’t good birds.”
“Why?”
“I had one.”
“When?”
“When I was a child.”
“Why aren’t they good?”
“It bit my finger one day.”
The little girl thought for a while and asked, “Then?”
“Then my parents took me to a village doctor.”
“Then?”
“The doctor told he’d cut my finger with a scissor.”
“Then?”
“Then it got cured automatically.”
The girl didn’t say anything.
“I’ll put the parrot in a cage so it can’t bite my fingers,” the girl said and showed her tiny fingers to her mother.
The mother knew her little daughter wouldn’t understand the pain of living in a cage. She was too young to understand it. The mother then looked at her forearm. The mark on her forearm reminded her of her husband. Anger and fear ran through her veins immediately. She breathed heavily. Her in-laws had tortured her into bringing more dowry. They even locked her in their warehouse and left her to starve there. After locking her in the dark and damp warehouse for around two days, her husband opened the door with a cane in his hand and thrashed her. The torture increased day by day. They later used to chain her in the warehouse. When nothing worked, they sent her back to her parents. She was pregnant at the time. She gave birth to a girl after six months. One day her husband came to see the baby girl. He was drunk. She didn’t allow him to see the baby girl. He cursed her and left. When the girl grew little old, she moved from her village to a village in Meghalaya with her old parents and daughter so her husband and in-laws would never find them. She now worked at a coal mine to earn a living.
“Ma,” the girl shook her wrist.
The mother didn’t say anything.
“Ma, I want the parrot,” the girl said, and her eyes now started glittering with tears, and she said again, “I want the parrot, ma.”
“We’ll buy the parrot,” the mother finally said after thinking for a while.
Happiness covered the girl’s face immediately.
“But you have to promise me one thing.”
The girl looked at her mother.
“You won’t imprison the parrot when it grows a little big. You’ll free it.”
“Will the parrot come to me again?”
“If you become its friend, it’ll definitely come back to you.”
“And then the parrot won’t bite my fingers also, right?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll train the parrot how to speak and fly high in the sky,” the girl said, pointed to the sky with her tiny index figure, kissed her mother’s wrist and happily smiled at her.
