Rickshaw Girl: Chapters 6–13

Naima yanked the sheet off her head. It was just as she’d feared. Mother had twisted off one of the two gold bangles she always wore on her wrist. She was holding it out to Father.

“What’s wrong with Naima?” one of them asked. “We heard she crashed your rickshaw. Why in the world was she driving it, anyway?”
Mother bristled. “Everybody makes mistakes. She was only trying to help. She’s growing up, you know.”

But she didn’t push back the window covering and wave. She didn’t dash outside so they could exchange a few words. And she certainly didn’t slip over to the banana grove to meet him. I’m already a disgrace, she thought. If my aunts catch me spending time with a boy, I’ll bring even more shame to Mother.

But she didn’t push back the window covering and wave. She didn’t dash outside so they could exchange a few words. And she certainly didn’t slip over to the banana grove to meet him. I’m already a disgrace, she thought. If my aunts catch me spending time with a boy, I’ll bring even more shame to Mother.

Naima’s aunts wore new silk sarees, rustling like wind in the rice paddies.

Naima’s aunts wore new silk sarees, rustling like wind in the rice paddies.

Naima let her eyes dwell on the fading patterns that Mother and Rashida had hastily invented for the contest. She stifled a groan. She hadn’t cared much on International Mother Language Day, but now the mistakes made her feel even worse.

Before Naima could stop herself, her mind began to dance with colors, shapes, sizes, balance, symmetry, patterns. Soon her hands were flying to keep up. She painted for a while, humming under her breath, forgetting everything but her work.

Surely painting rickshaws wasn’t much harder than designing alpanas. Why couldn’t she work for the rickshaw painter in exchange for the rickshaw repair? Think this through, Naima, she warned herself sternly.

“Our villages are safe,” Naima said. “I’ll be fine.”
“You’ll be a stranger there, and it’s about an hour’s walk away. I wish I could drive you, but I have to get some paying fares. Father’s going to wonder already what I’ve been doing all afternoon.”

Naima tugged the white ribbon off her braid. “Here—this is for you.”
“For me? Why?”
“It’s a present, a keepsake, to remember that we’re friends, even if we can’t meet here as often as we used to. Now you leave first, and I’ll come out after a few minutes.”

The village was slowly waking up. It wouldn’t be long before the lanes were bustling with rickshaws and people.

Other vendors along the street were starting to arrange their wares—rubber sandals, wool shawls, toys, baskets of pomegranates, cinnamon sticks, and cloves.

Other vendors along the street were starting to arrange their wares—rubber sandals, wool shawls, toys, baskets of pomegranates, cinnamon sticks, and cloves.

But she didn’t have time to linger. She had to get to that repair shop before Father did! She forced herself not to think about Father’s reaction when he found her.

“I’m hoping the new owner might need a helper. Do you know if the shop’s hired someone already?”
The boy smirked. “Not that I know of,” he said. “You’d have to be desperate to want that job.”

“I need to concentrate, and all I get are interruptions.” She didn’t bother keeping the irritation out of her voice.
Naima didn’t move. The woman made an exasperated noise and went back to work.

“Are you making money?” Naima asked eagerly, not bothering to wonder if the question was rude. It felt like the most important question in the world.
The woman didn’t seem to mind. "I’ve only been open for a few days. This order’s for my cousin Ali’s rickshaw fleet. If he likes my work, he’s promised to give me more business—and spread the word. People have always followed Ali’s lead.”

As she listened Naima caught sight of an old-fashioned rickshaw. It was freshly painted with borders of orchids and lilies and water hyacinths outlining each panel. The words “Hassan’s Rickshaw Repair Shop” were emblazoned on the back panel.

She moved her fingers quickly down the stack, stopping to tap a corner of tin about halfway up from the ground. “Take this panel and let me see what you do with it. It won’t take me much time to fix if you make too many mistakes. But watch me for a while before you start. Applying enamel paint on tin is quite different than painting rice powder on a stone.”

The woman lit a few kerosene lanterns and went back to her painting. Naima watched the woman closely, noticing how much paint she placed on the brush and the way it was supposed to be held in the hand.

“We did it!” the woman said finally, her voice jubilant. “Ali’s going to be delighted!”

“Have you seen a girl—” Father began. Then he caught sight of Naima. For a long minute he stared at her in the dim light, too stunned even to speak. Then: “Naima! You came here alone? Dressed like that? We’ve been frantic with worry. What were you thinking?”

The woman nodded. “My father used to own a shop in this village. And my shop will live up to his motto—‘The best work at the best prices.’ See for yourself.”

The woman’s rickshaw was ancient, but well oiled. Father pedaled hard and they sped through the dark village. It’s a good thing I turned out to be a girl. The words chimed like sitar music in Naima’s mind.