8

—

Hello, Everyone

I RETURN THE dove book to Book Uncle.

“Did you like it?” he asks.

“It was … interesting,” I say. “But why was it so perfect for me?”

I don’t mean to sound ungrateful, but I can’t help myself. I am puzzled and it just comes bursting out that way.

“Ah,” he says. “That is a very good question.”

“Thank you,” I say. “But what is the answer?”

“Sometimes you have to let the perfect book sit in your mind for a while before it begins to mean something.” He hands me two more books. “One for now, one for later.”

When I thank him, he smiles and nods at me, his Number One Patron.

That afternoon my mother gets ready to go shopping. She has cleaned the house until she is satisfied that it is spotless and ready for Rafiq Uncle’s visit. Now we need to buy vegetables and fruits, so he will not think for a minute that we don’t eat properly. Our usual bunch of bananas and enough veggies for a quick curry will not do.

Umma picks up her purse and shopping bags.

“Come on, Yasmin,” she says. “Let’s go.”

As the door of our flat clicks shut behind us, the one across the hall flies open. That’s Reeni’s flat, 3B. Out comes Shoba Aunty, Reeni’s mother. We say hello to her but she barely nods back. She seems to be in a big hurry. She must be on her way to the TV station to work the evening shift.

On the way downstairs we say hello to Chinna Abdul Sahib of 2B who has popped out to look in his mailbox. He nods back, which is more than he usually does.

Chinna Abdul Sahib is a drummer. He plays a big round ghatam made of clay. He is in big demand to play that clay pot-drum at concerts and weddings. Wapa says it takes a lot of strength to play that kind of drum. I wonder if that is why Chinna Abdul Sahib wastes no energy talking.

We say hello to the newly married couple in 1B. They are standing outside their door, admiring the new doorbell that the electrician has just fixed. They say hello together. Then they look at each other as if they have never seen such a beautiful sight before.

We say hello to the electrician.

We say hello to the flower seller who is just arriving, and to the istri lady in her little booth downstairs. She’s filling her big heavy iron with hot coals so she can press and fold the clothes of all her customers in Horizon Apartment and the neighboring flats.

“Can I put some money in Book Uncle’s tin?” I ask.

“Hurry,” says Umma.

I run over to Book Uncle. My coins clink in his tin.

“Thank you,” he says.

We cross the road.

“You’re very quiet,” Umma says.

“Mmm,” I say.

“Is something wrong?” she asks.

I mumble, “No. Not really.” But my voice sounds guilty, as if it’s trying to escape from telling a total lie because maybe something is not wrong, exactly, but it’s not exactly right, either. How can everything be right when my best friend Reeni has gone all huffy and quiet and it’s all my fault?

“How are you?” says the fruit man, when we get to his stand with rows of fruit all neatly stacked. “I have nice bananas and guavas for you.”

Umma picks her fruit — guavas that are green on top but they will be pink inside when we cut them open, and tiny bananas from the hills. The man puts them all in a bag and hands the bag to Umma. The guavas settle to the bottom, with the bunches of little bananas on top. They all jiggle into place, just the way a perfect book settles in my mind.

Something roars behind me.

“Yasmin, watch out!” says Umma.

Just in time, I leap out of the way.