The Blue Bedspread by Raj Kamal Jha

our own light garden, its floor the blue bedspread, its roof the blanket and its flowers the red flowers on my sister’s white nightdress, the checks and stripes on my shirt.
    There are several smells in our garden. The earth is the blanket, musty and warm; the grass is our clothes, smelling of water and soap and sun, the blue bedspread is the night, the flowers are my sister’s shampoo, the wind is the breath of approaching sleep.
    But soon it becomes difficult to breathe, so we raise one end of the blanket, the one over our head, let the cold, fresh air rush in and then we dive underneath, back to our garden.
    Sometimes we feel bold, so we hold the blanket high. We balance it, adjust it with our hands, so that the tassels on its fringe hang straight down, touch the blue bedspread in such a way that they seem like pickets for the fence of our light garden.
    Then the light streams in, it gets brighter, it’s daytime in our garden, the colours of the flowers change. Until Father switches off the light and our garden melts into the night, the flowers go to sleep.
    We played this game for quite a few winters until we found that we were growing bigger and bigger, the blanket, after we were covered, couldn’t reach far enough to be held high and tight, the garden then grew smaller and smaller.
    But I needed to tell you this little story, my child, so that when you have to pull your blanket over your head, remember that with a little bit of imagination, you can always find some love trapped in some fear.

 
D URGA P UJA
     
    Mike testing, ten, nine, eight, seven six five, four three two onezero. Testing, mike testing, ten, nine, eight, it’s the first day of the Pujas and she is ironing their clothes, his mother has to go for the prayer later in the day, she can see the thin man climb up the lamp-post, another holding the ladder, he adjusts the microphone underneath, the huge black and yellow banner for Boroline, the antiseptic cream for all seasons.
    There are neat circular holes punched in the banner. Grandfather told her, long ago, those holes are for the wind to pass through so that the banner doesn’t tear.
    She still cannot understand why. Maybe it has to do with forces acting on a rectangular surface, her school physics. Wherever she goes, she finds these banners, calling out to her across the city, strung across two lampposts on either side of the street, above the tram wires. Sometimes even across two houses in narrow lanes. All kinds of banners. Sure Success Tutorials for the Joint Entrance Examinations, Slimline Beauty Clinic, Complete Course in Computer Programming.
    But this black and yellow Boroline banner comes up only during the Pujas, around the pandals, the huge tents made of canvas and cane, set up in the neighbourhood to welcome the Goddess who comes down from the hills, with her children, to her father’s place. For ten days every year.
    Since last year, they also have a blue and white banner as big as Boroline’s, but this one’s for Fair and Lovely, the cream which dissolves the brown and keeps the skin fair and glowing. She’d bought it once, Mother threw it out, ‘You are dark and you are beautiful,’ she had said.
    She bought one again after her marriage, used it every day, she bought it twice, thrice until her husband said, ‘Forget it, let’s wait for something better.’
    His shirt and trousers are done, she has draped them over the dining-table chair, he will go with his mother to the pandal; his mother’s blouse has been ironed, the sari is left.
    She remembers the candy man in Deoghar where she went for the Pujas long, long ago, the old man with the long bamboo pole against his shoulder, the candy wrapped around at the top, a big red and white ball. Twenty paise and he lowered the pole, tore off a chunk and asked her what shape would she like it in.
    She always preferred the watch, so he tore a chunk off the candy ball and made a watch for her, the dial is white, the straps are red