The Blue Bedspread by Raj Kamal Jha Page A

that go over her wrists. ‘They go well with your dress, little girl,’ he said.
    Grandfather always paid him extra, told him, ‘Buy something for your children, they must be waiting for you at home.’ And she would feel the heavy candy on her wrist, watch the candy man walk away.
    She liked to lick the straps first and then the dial, the dial was sweeter. ‘Wash your wrists with soap after you are done,’ Mother said. ‘Otherwise, ants will come at night.’
    She can hear him in the bathroom, pouring the water over his body, mugs and mugs, she can hear the silences in between as he soaps himself. She removes a hanger from the wardrobe for his mother’s ironed blouse, hangs it from the hook on the wall, above the Tata Steel calendar.
    It shows October, the month of nuts and bolts, magnified in black and grey, about twenty-five times, so that the threads on the screws are visible, like whorls on some iron fingers. The calendar page flaps gently in the wind but the ironed blouse firmly keeps it in place.
    Mike testing. Eight-year-old Anshuman has come from Barasat, he is with us at the Puja Organizing Committee office, his mother, please come and pick him up. Anshuman, eight years old, is from Barasat. He is sitting here, right in front of us, please come and pick him up. This is a message to all parents, please take care of your children, tell them to hold your hand, we will do our best.
    His father sits on the sofa, his legs up, reading The Statesman, the only newspaper that’s printing in the Pujas. They have a picture of the Goddess on the front page, a Goddess with dark lipstick, high cheekbones and a blouse that glitters.
    Through the window she can see the house across the slums, the Saha household, the father works with Indian Airlines, he gets packets of fresheners for his children, sometimes even unopened breakfast and lunch boxes, complete with the little plastic packet which has the silverware, knives and forks, one big spoon for the rice, one tiny spoon for the dessert. And one toothpick per lunch.
    Saha has two children, a brother and a sister, and today she can see them in their balcony, the sister in a new Puja yellow and red dress, resting her face against the grille. She had done the same thing once and Father had said, ‘Don’t sit like this, the iron will leave marks on your face, spoil your skin.’
    She spreads the sari across the iron board, the ends fall against the floor.
    ‘Careful, now,’ says his mother from the next room. She bends, picks up the ends of the sari.
    ‘Be careful, not so hot, it’s silk,’ says his mother.
    And she begins ironing the sari, bit by bit, the sweat rolling down her neck into her blouse, onto her breasts. She shivers, watches her wrist, the candy that’s not there. He’s out of the bathroom now, drying himself, she can hear the towel rustle against his body, her husband’s body, his hair.
    ‘Hurry up,’ says his mother. ‘His trousers should be ready, he shouldn’t catch a cold. The weather is changing.’
    She can hear the mike again. We are pleased to inform you that Anshuman’s parents have found him, please take care of your children.
    Mike testing, the counting begins again, ten nine eight, the wind rushes, suddenly, from nowhere, through the holes in the banners, some of it enters the room, fans her face, and for some strange reason she begins to cry, seven six five, the tears fall on his mother’s sari and she presses the hot iron, four three two, steams the drops away. One, zero, she’s ready.

 
M ATERNITY W ARD
     
    The glass window is large, the drapes are grey and heavy but she’s pushed them aside, there was a bit of a problem since one of the hooks, the little white plastic hooks that move along the curtain rod, got stuck.
    She tugged, tugged harder, one hook gave way, snapped. It fell to the marble floor. She turned, looked around, just in case someone was watching, but there was no one, who knows whether this is damage to hospital