She carried a stone child strapped to her back. An unusual sight in the bazaar, but like all unusual sights here, it went by unnoticed.
I spotted her from my typical haunt by the stall that sold stolen timepieces. The boys and I were lighting up our smokes and looking for fools—fools who seemed like they could use protection.
The locals of the city were protected by someone or another. That, or they knew their place. They knew that if you stepped on toes, you could lose a leg. All it took was one mistake, and you’d join the cripples of the bazaar, the ones shaking their begging tins and moaning for fleeting sympathy.
But this woman with the stone child, she was a fool. You could tell from the way her eyes roved about, the way her neck twisted to follow the scent of minced meat in a bun. The locals weren’t like that. They knew exactly what to keep their eyes on.
I slipped past the stalls selling grey crabs and tattered books, glass bangles and muslin scarves; past the half-blind cat dancing amidst shoppers’ feet; past the percussionists and trumpeters by the alleys with their upturned hats empty of coin.
The locals never looked me in the eye, but they did see me coming. They were like a school of fish, making way for the shark coming through.
The woman was half my size, so I had to bend low to catch her gaze.
“Need help?” I asked as I matched my pace with hers.
The woman glanced at me as if my face blended in with the bazaar.
I drew my switchblade out and played with it. I made sure she could see it.
With me walking by her side, she no longer had to wade through the crowd. And yet, to her, it was as if I wasn’t there at all.
“Statue like that could fetch a nice price,” I said.
“She’s not a statue,” the woman wiped sweat from her forehead. “She’s my daughter.”
I slowed down to get behind the woman and examine what she was carrying.
Bound to the woman’s body using coir ropes, the stone girl looked like she could have been five or six years old. Her hands were raised high, and so was one of her legs. It looked as though she was climbing a wall.
Pits and craters marred the weathered grey stone that made up her skin and dress. A chunk of her hair below the shoulders was missing, and you could barely make out any facial features other than an open mouth.
We passed the street full of mendicants, where a shaman dressed in black invited us to an exorcism of our demons. His cronies fanned him with peacock feathers. I didn’t dare look him in his kohl-lined eyes, but the woman did, and she carried on like he was nothing.
To our right, we passed the stonecutters, where painters squatted before idols, painting crowns golden and eyes black. The woman scanned them all, but she did not approach any of them.
I put the switchblade back into my pocket.
“Can’t be good for your back, carrying a statue like that,” I said.
“I said she’s not a statue,” the woman replied.
When we reached the bazaar square, she focused her gaze straight ahead, at the fountain in the middle.
She approached the fountain and sat on the rim of its pool. Then, she carefully loosened the coir ropes, taking care not to let the stone child fall. Once the ropes were off, she cradled the stone child in her arms and looked at it in the eyes.
I sat beside her.
“How did she turn to stone?” I asked.
“She was always like this,” the woman kissed the stone child on the forehead.
Her tears darkened the stone of the girl’s cheeks. It had been so long since I’d seen someone cry and smile at the same time.
With her daughter in her arms, the woman stood up on the rim of the fountain. She waded into the pool, raising the stone child high above the splashing water.
Fourteen statues rested in the centre of the fountain. The woman placed her daughter between them. The girl couldn’t balance herself on her one leg, so she ended up leaning against the kneeling stone pilgrims in their hooded robes.
The woman stood awhile to make sure her daughter wouldn’t slip into the water. Then, she took a step back and let herself fall into the pool.
I watched her float there. Not a lot of people noticed us.
© Rahul Shirke
Rahul Shirke is a writer from the sweltering suburbs of Mumbai. He maintains a daily writing blog called Sulfurous Dreamscapes, and his work has previously appeared in Déraciné. To read more of his work visit:
Website: https://www.