The Color of Our Sky

by Amita Trasi

I had tried to break away from it for so long I had forgotten that places can have memories too.

It is said that time heals everything. I don’t think that’s true. As the years have gone by, I’ve found it odd how simple things can still remind you of those terrible times or how the moment you try so hard to forget becomes your sharpest memory.

There were girls just like me, holding their father’s hand or sitting on their father’s shoulders. They looked happy and safe. Amma told me that fathers did anything to protect their daughters. It was something she said I didn’t have; something she knew would come my way. All we had to do was wait!

Amma explained to me that our broken-down house was a reminder of the love she once had, one that had withered away. On days when I thought of it that way, I felt sad too.

“You can have all the delusions you want. Women in our community do not know who their fathers are. They don’t deserve a father. What makes you think Mukta deserves one?” Sakubai said, waving Amma away.

“Whatever is in the girl’s destiny,” Sakubai said resignedly, looking out the window, already bidding me goodbye.

Your father is different than any other man I have known, Mukta. He always helps people in need. People come to him for advice. I am sure he will understand how desperately I want you to get away from this life. I want it to be different for you. I want it to be better.” She looked away, a wistful look in her eyes.

I used to ask Papa if he knew magic, and he would laugh. “The magic is in the words, my dear girl. When you bend one’s thoughts with words that touch the soul, they call it inspiration.”

Whenever I saw them together, I would have to stop myself from wondering what that felt like—to have a father who loved you so much.

A deep longing to be able to read rose in my heart, just like that day when Amma and I had walked through the village and she had shown me the village school for the first time.

Then out of the blue, she pointed to me and asked, “Papa, will she be going to school too?” I looked at her shocked. Sahib turned behind to look at me. “What do you think? You will want to study, won’t you?” he asked, and before I could digest the thought, I could see myself in his eyes, flying like a bird in the sky.

I wasn’t thinking when I had asked if she would be going to school too. It was an absurd question to begin with, because if I had given it thought, I would have realized all such children who came to stay with us for a while never went to school. They stayed at home and earned their keep. But words once released cannot be taken back.

After all, how much could a girl like her be interested in learning?

Once I even asked her, “What do you get from those books, anyway?” She closed the book she was reading, thought for a while, and said, “It is better than the world we live in.” “You are crazy,” I said, shaking my head.

Sometimes, I couldn’t help but wonder what it would be like to study. To be educated would mean gaining respect in everybody’s eyes. But did someone like me deserve that? Memsahib had made it very clear that I shouldn’t have fancy ideas about school.

“Maybe I will help you learn to read,” she said. “You talk so much about it. Once you study we will be equals—you and I—just like sisters. Then Aai wouldn’t treat you badly. But you have to learn English for that. Nobody can call you lowly if you know English. Aai says people who know English are very smart.”

“She wasn’t a servant. She just did some chores in the house. She helped out, that’s all.” “I see. So you sent her to the same school as your daughter? And your daughter did as many chores as her? Who are you fooling, sir?” Papa’s face tightened and flushed with anger.

Do we all hide things from people we love? Worry that if they find out what we have done, who we really are, they’ll just stop loving us?

I laughed and said the article would be read by thousands, maybe millions, over tea one morning. For a moment they will feel sad and cringe that a life like this exists. Then they will finish their cup of tea, greet their neighbors, and go off to work like any other morning as if nothing had ever happened.

“That’s when I took to reading books and found that you were right.” “I was right?” “Yes, books are better than the world we live in.”

“You haven’t changed, have you?” “That’s all I have ever had—the ability to see the beauty in small things, in people, in nature. It’s the only thing that has helped me survive. Is that so bad?” “No.” She shook her head. “Not at all.”