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Connections
THE NEXT TUESDAY is Republic Day. They show us the big parade on TV, broadcast all the way from Delhi. Even Rafiq Uncle is impressed, I can see. He can’t find anything to criticize.
The President of India gives her talk. Floats from all the states go past. Dancers dance and the marching bands play-play-play.
After that, the local news comes on. First a few headlines. National news. Then local. After that, we cut to a studio where all the candidates for mayor wait, ready to be interviewed!
There’s Mayor SLY with his pointy mustache. And one man with a bald head, one wearing a dazzling white shirt. A lady in a printed sari. And Karate Samuel, looking very fine with a rose in his buttonhole.
All these people want to be mayor.
The interviewer opens with some welcoming remarks. Then the talk begins. Back and forth, back and forth.
I wait for someone to say something about Book Uncle.
No one does. No one.
What is wrong with them? I try not to fidget and still no one says anything, which makes me so angry I cannot sit still, which makes Rafiq Uncle demand in an irritated voice, “What is the matter, Yasmin?”
“Book Uncle!” I burst out. “He’s an important election issue.”
He looks completely baffled so I explain it as well as I can. I tell him the whole story, all the way from how I mean to read a book every day for the rest of my life. The pink notice. Mrs. Rao. My letter-writing campaign. Everything.
“We wrote all those letters,” I say. “And still no one cares.”
It does not look as if Rafiq Uncle is paying any attention to my explanation. Instead he glares at my father.
“Who is this Book Uncle?” Rafiq Uncle demands to know.
Umma takes a deep breath. She picks up a small brass bell that sits on the end table next to the sofa.
“Thambi,” says Rafiq Uncle to Wapa. “What do you have to say about your daughter roaming about here and there all by herself, reading who-knows-what trash from the street corner?”
Umma lets out that deep breath she took a moment ago. She looks as if she would like to throw the bell at Rafiq Uncle.
My father comes to life. My father sits up straight. He clears his throat.
“Rafiq-anna,” he says in his most respectful tone to his big brother. “I trust my daughter. I trust her judgment. I will not look over her shoulder as if I suspect that she is up to no good.”
Umma’s head jerks up. She puts the bell down. Then she covers her mouth with her hand.
Is she smiling? I can’t tell.
Rafiq Uncle says, “Of course you trust her. I’m not saying — ”
Which is when I interrupt, not to be rude or anything, but because I can’t stand it anymore.
“Please. Rafiq Uncle. Don’t talk about me as if I’m not here!”
And that silences them all. Totally.
I say, “Umma, Wapa, I’m going to see Reeni. Is that okay?”
My parents nod.
I run out of the door and across the landing and knock on Reeni’s door.
“We have to do something to help Book Uncle,” I tell her. “It’s up to us.”
“What can we do?” Reeni says.
Somehow my confusion has been swept away by hearing Wapa talk back to his big brother for the first time ever. I don’t know why, but I now see things very, very clearly.
“Reeni,” I say. “There just weren’t enough doves lifting that net. We have to get more.”
Reeni is a little confused about what doves have to do with a piece of paper and the city.
But after I clear that one up, she says, “Oh, now I get it. Of course I’ll help you.”
We go door to door, up and down Horizon Apartment Flats. We tell everyone about Book Uncle.
“Whoever you vote for,” we say, “that person has to let Book Uncle keep his street-corner lending library. Don’t you agree?”
Chinna Abdul Sahib nods. “I know him well,” he says.
“You do?” How does he know Book Uncle? He never speaks two words to anyone.
Here I am getting that surprise feather feeling again. Chinna Abdul Sahib drums against the doorframe.
He says, “Music books. He gave me music books years ago, when I thought I wanted to be an accountant. He changed my life.”
He’s one of Book Uncle’s patrons! I have never heard Chinna Abdul Sahib make such a long speech.
“That Book-ayya is a good man,” says the istri lady from behind the tall-growing-taller pile of clothes she is collecting from the boy in 2C and the lady in 2A. She counts the clothes carefully — four rupees each for the pants and the saris, two for the shirts and blouses.
“That will be twenty-six for you and forty-two for you,” she says. I’m sure she’s right. She did that in her head. I would need paper and pencil.
I wonder if Book Uncle taught the istri lady how to add.
“I don’t know him,” says the lady in 2A, who is new to the building. I tell her all about how Book Uncle always has the right book for the right person on the right day.
“I’ll give my vote to whoever promises to help him,” says the istri lady. The lady in 2A nods-nods-nods. She is on our side.
“I miss him,” says the boy from 2C. “I’ll tell my parents and my grandmother.” So he’s a patron, too.
“We have to save Book Uncle’s place,” we say to Reeni’s mother in 3B. We tell her why.
“No question,” says Shoba Aunty, between taking sips of coffee from the mug in one hand and sending a text message on her phone with the other. Shoba Aunty is always doing more than one thing, which is probably why she is looking a little tired.
“You must make it a media issue,” she tells us. “Take it to TV.”
Reeni looks at me. I look at her.
“How?” we say together.
Shoba Aunty says, “Connections, my dear girls. It’s who you know.”
My heart sinks. “I don’t …”
“Yes, you do,” Reeni says. “Mummy!”
Shoba Aunty nods. “I’ll put in a word at the TV station. You watch the news. What’s today? Tuesday? How about Thursday evening, okay?”