The story of Berlin in the 20th century
‘The Pigeon Wallah’ by Anita Goodfellow – runner up in our ‘Sense of Place’ Creative Writing Competition 2021
18th December 2021
Anita Goodfellow has an MA in creative writing from Bath Spa University. She divides her time between the UK and France. Her stories have been placed and shortlisted in writing competitions and published in various anthologies. Her first novel, ‘The Salvesen Sisters’ is in its final stages
The Pigeon Wallah, set in Jaipur, India
Although the muscles in Rajesh’s arms are burning he keeps them raised. His boss could be watching or one of the hotel guests. At least he’s not on his hands and knees like the poor women plucking at the weeds in the grass. They’re like giant pecking birds. His daughter is amongst them. Aanya’s sari is the colour of the Rajasthani sky before pollution turned it a dirty yellow.
He whacks the canvas with his cane. The pigeons rise together and land on the roof above him. This is one of the inner courtyards of the hotel. He sees things here – things he must never tell. Sometimes a guest will offer him kindness in a greeting or a piece of fruit but mostly they don’t acknowledge him. And that’s how it should be. That’s what he told Aanya when she started working in the grounds – to be invisible makes a good worker.
Sweat trickles down his back. The scarlet turban is heavy and itchy. He hates wearing this get up, but Gita says he looks smart in his white achkan.
The hotel has changed since he started working here thirty years ago. Then he was a porter, like his father before him. But nowadays the porters have lighter skins.
Here in the peace of the vast Mughal gardens it’s easy to forget the poverty outside its walls. The podium where he stands is surrounded by galleries of hand-carved latticework and smooth sandstone balustrades. There is no shade in the courtyard and the glare from the marble hurts his eyes so he concentrates on the elaborate green hedges and loses himself in the sound of water trickling in the fountain. This place used to be a palace – the jewel of Jaipur. He remembers his father’s stories of a time when the Maharaja and his guests would hunt in the grounds surrounding the palace. Now the city has grown around them and those wild places have been replaced with concrete and tarmac. It was a different time, a time when daughters obeyed their parents and didn’t resist their choice of a husband.
A stone hits his leg and he hears giggling. They know he can’t move, the children of the rich hotel guests. Spoilt brats. He grinds his teeth together. Gita always says, ‘Rajesh, breathe in and out. There, now you feel better.’
The sun is high. His back hurts. Surely it must be time for his break.
The pigeons return to the fountain as they always do. Like them, he longs to dip his head in the water. He whacks the canvas and off they go. He wishes he could fly with them and escape the humidity and the poverty. He imagines it for a moment, soaring high above the city. But really where would he go when here is all he has ever known.
He is returning to the courtyard after his break when he spies a shiny car crawling up the main drive of the hotel. It looks expensive, not that he’s an expert, although his knowledge has broadened working here over the years. The metallic bodywork gleams in the sun like the sheen of a scarab beetle scurrying through the filth.
It stops and the driver opens the rear door. A smartly dressed young man steps out. His hair is slicked back and sunglasses obscure his face. He turns towards the women plucking the grass.
His daughter has stopped working and is wiping her face with the edge of her sari. Rajesh silently urges Aanya to carry on. They can’t afford for her to lose this job. He’s always said she was lazy. Gita has always defended the girl.
The man struts over to the women. He bends down and says something to Aanya and the silly girl laughs. Then she is up on her feet and running across the lawn. Her ghoonghat has slipped, baring her head and exposing her delicate neck. She disappears through the gates, but the young man continues looking long after she has gone. She has been noticed. A coldness forms in Rajesh’s chest.
For the rest of the day, as he scares the pigeons, the image of the man doesn’t leave him.
His oldest friend, Lala is waiting in his green and yellow tuk-tuk outside the hotel. The staff tolerate his presence because he has become something of a tourist attraction with his white hair and ready banter. Lala pours them both a thandai from his flask and when Rajesh’s thirst is quenched he tells his friend about the shiny car.
‘He’s a polo player. Famous.’ Lala spits. A blob of blood-red betel-nut juice hits the ground.
‘I gave your girl a ride earlier – she had an errand to run for him. The man had a yearning for authentic street food. Aanya’s not stupid – she went and spent his money at Gita’s stall. We all know Gita makes the best gol gappa. Keeping it in the family.’ Lala smiles exposing the gaps where his teeth used to be.
The tension leaves Rajesh’s shoulders. He’s taught her well, his daughter. His stomach rumbles at the mention of his wife’s food. He bids his friend farewell and starts on the long walk home.
The area’s changed over the years and now smart apartment blocks tower over the main road and the slums in the distance. He stops at the Moti Dungri temple. Through a haze of incense Lord Ganesh regards him with black glass eyes. The icon’s orange-red paint is the exact shade of the sindoor he brushed in the parting of Gita’s hair on their wedding day. The vendors have set up braziers outside and the aroma of peanut oil and cardamon quickens his steps.
He promised Gita they would move to a better home, but here they’ve stayed. At least their house has solid walls and a flat roof where they can lay their mattresses in the heat of the summer. The less fortunate, like the family he passes, make do with tarpaulin. A little boy holds up an orange like a trophy only to have it snatched by his father. The boy’s cries follow Rajesh as he hurries up the hill to home.
He sprawls on his cushion and watches Gita stirring a pot. She moves more slowly these days and her dark hair is threaded with grey. She places a bowl of dahl in front of him.
‘Where’s Aanya?’ He crushes a mosquito in his fist.
‘She’s gone shopping for a sack of rice,’ Gita says passing him some roti.
He takes a bite and savours the taste of his wife’s cooking
The next morning Aanya is looking at herself in the cracked mirror that hangs on the wall. She’s wearing a different sari, one where the colours are still bright. Gita’s grumbling to herself about the rice merchant and his rip off prices.
‘Aanya, what have I told you about not being seen?’ Rajesh says, coming closer. Her hair smells of rose oil.
‘I don’t know what you mean, Baba.’ Their eyes meet in the mirror.
‘That man yesterday. I saw him talk to you.’
‘He wanted some proper street food. I went to Ma’s stall.’
‘Oh yes the man from the hotel. I made sure to give him double the portion,’ Gita says, smiling. ‘That way he’ll return.’
He ignores Gita’s comment. ‘It’s time our daughter was married.’
Aanya looks away.
‘We had the offer from Lala’s younger brother months ago.’
‘But Aanya said no,’ Gita says.
‘It’s time,’ he replies.
‘I’m not marrying that old man.’ Aanya turns on her heel and runs out of their home.
‘Aanya.’
‘Let her go,’ Gita says. ‘I’ll talk some sense into her later. This is women’s business, Rajesh.’
Rajesh covers his mouth as he steps across the open sewer running between the houses. Monkey’s screech overhead baring their pink gums and sharp teeth as they swing from the cables. He spies his daughter near the bottom of the hill – a splash of purple. He must talk to her. So intent is he on watching her he almost trips over a pig routing around in the gutter. When he looks up his daughter has gone.
By the time he climbs onto the podium he’s already sweating. As he watches the pigeons he thinks about his daughter. They’ve indulged their only child, he can see that now. She should have been married a year ago. He had hoped for a better match, but Lala’s brother is a good man.
Two women walk past, their musky perfume wafting towards him as he raises the canvas. He tries not to listen to their conversation as they meander along the path towards the fountain. They’re talking about a famous polo player, Ashok Patel and about how handsome he is. At first he thinks he’s misheard. He feels a rush of fear but reasons that it’s a common enough name. Standing on the podium he flaps at the pigeons whilst fighting his memories.
He must have been ten years old the first time he saw her. His mother washed the clothes of their rich neighbours and, as a child, Sunita was often left in her care. At the stepwell they’d play on the steps whilst his mother gossiped with the other women. He loved the symmetry of the place and said that one day he would build a structure just like this. Sunita taught him how to write his name by dipping her finger into the cool water and drawing the letters on the stone. She smiled when he told her he would marry her. One day Sunita dared him to jump so he did. He hadn’t expected her to follow him. The day he saved her from the stepwell he was hailed a hero but what they had been doing there in the first place remained unsaid, a secret between the two of them. When his mother spotted the blood on Sunita’s undergarments she told him that Sunita was now a woman and he could no longer play with her. Undeterred, he would walk by Sunita’s house hoping to speak to her only to be turned away by the servants.
The mournful call of a peacock brings him back to his present surroundings.
He has to find out for himself.
After his shift he takes a short detour via the polo course. Up ahead a group of workers are wrapping tapes around the legs of the thoroughbreds and plaiting their tails. The men don’t look up. As he draws closer to the buildings he hears a giggle. In the open doorway to the stable the man touches his daughter’s cheek. The familiarity in that gesture is too much for Rajesh, but before he reaches them she’s gone. The man walks towards him with a swagger like his father, but when Rajesh looks at his face he sees his own eyes reflected back at him. Quickly he bows his head and continues on his way through the park.
He goes to the stepwell, not able to face Gita or Aanya yet. He picks his way amongst the pigeon shit and finds a spot to sit and think. The setting sun is reflected in the stagnant water. The arches and steps are black and crumbling. The place is so different to when he was a boy and Sunita’s eyes sparkled with mischief. He remembers the longing deep in his gut. A week before her wedding she came to him. The touch of her hennaed fingers burnt his skin. Afterwards, they made plans to run away with each other. But he was no match for the powerful man she was promised to. It could never be. Nine months later Sunita gave birth to a boy. It was a difficult birth and the city doctor couldn’t save her. After Sunita’s death her husband moved to Delhi with the boy.
A pigeon lands on the step beside him. Rajesh stands up and the bird takes flight. His anger grows with each step he takes. It has to be stopped.
Aanya and Gita are sewing when he arrives. Aanya’s eyes widen with fear when he pulls her to her feet and raises his stick.
With each thrash he feels his own guilt and the weight of the dreadful secret he’s kept from everyone. He remembers the expression in Sunita’s eyes when she asked him to run away with her. Gita begs him to stop. Finally, he drops the cane, his body spent.
Gita rubs oil into Aanya’s shoulders whilst he sits outside listening to the scurrying of rats and the barking of the neighbourhood dogs.
Later, Gita’s voice comes to him out of the dark. ‘Why Rajesh? Aanya’s always been a good daughter. You’ve never raised a hand to either of us. Why now?’
‘Hush woman. It’s late.’
But Gita persists so Rajesh tells her about seeing Aanya with the famous polo player.
‘But he spends money at my stall. A lot of money. Aanya’s not silly.’
‘It’s not proper,’ he says.
Gita moves away from him. ‘There’s something else?’
He tells her then about Sunita, not the whole story of course. But she stops him before he gets to the end.
‘You think I didn’t know about your love for her?’
He’s bewildered now. How can Gita have known.
‘You forget how people like to gossip. Although I was little more than a child I could see the bond between you.’
‘But…’
She puts her hand up to stop him. ‘Let me finish. I know we were promised to each other, but you could have been a cruel husband especially as I failed to give you the son you longed for, yet all you’ve shown me is kindness.’ Gita says, pulling him close. ‘Leave it to me,’ she whispers. ‘I’ll take care of it.’
The call of the muezzin drifts over the rooftops. It’s barely light. A tapping sound – stone against stone is coming from the room below. He steps over his daughter’s empty mattress to find Gita bent over her pestle and mortar, her hands stained from the spices.
‘You’re up early.’
‘Lots to do today,’ she says, smiling.
‘Where’s Aanya?’
‘She’s gone to get me some bhindi. Don’t worry, Rajesh.’
Later that morning he sees the polo player talking once again to Aanya. And off she runs to fetch some more street food from Gita’s stall.
When he leaves the hotel that evening a big crowd has gathered outside the polo grounds. ‘What’s going on?’ he says to LaLa.
‘That big shot polo player is very sick, stomach cramps and vomiting. They’ve taken him to the hospital, but it doesn’t sound good.’
Rajesh takes a deep breath and slowly exhales. He remembers the way Gita smiled at him that morning, her hands guarding her pestle and mortar. Her words echo in his head once more, ‘leave it to me, Rajesh.’
Please wait...
Love the ending! And a great sense of place. I was there but I would have liked some more smells of the place. That’s a small complaint, nothing major, the story is brilliant.