Thank God, The Sky is Not Navy Blue

It took Maa eleven days to finish sewing Pipli's school uniform. You cannot just walk inside a school like that. In most places, you need at least a good solid official name. And in Pipli's school, you need a school-uniform too. White shirt, blue shorts for boys. White shirt, blue skirts for girls. White socks, black shoes. Naughty-Boy shoes for boys. Ballerina for girls. When Baba read out the piece of paper they received from her school, Pipli learned two new words. “Shorts” and “skirts.” Baba explained “shorts” is the same thing as a half-pant. And a “skirt” is a frock without the top part. Pipli has never worn a skirt before. Pipli does not have a skirt yet. While Baba was explaining all these things to her, Maa scurried off the room – “Jai, jwalta garam holo kina dekhe ashi. Let me go and see if the water has been heated up enough.” She said this to no one in particular. Pipli does not understand why Maa is always running around, doing this or that. And while she is running around, Maa does not always answer Pipli's questions.
But sometimes, while Maa is sweeping the gray cement floors of the hallways or cooking, Maa likes to sing. Loudly. As if she is shouting her lungs out. Srabano ghono gahana mohe/Gopano tabo charana phele/Nishar mato niraba ohe/Sabar dithi eraye ele. Maa keeps repeating these four lines again and again. Pipli does not understand the meanings of all the words, but when she hears Maa singing this song, Pipli thinks the color of Maa's voice is blue. When she sings Badalo baul bajaye bajaye bajaye re, the color of her voice becomes green. Pipli wants to touch her Maa during these times, put her arms around Maa's neck. But then she is afraid the singing will stop. Pipli doesn't want to break the rhythm. So, mostly Pipli finds herself a corner from where she can watch the dazed, lost face of her Maa. Her hands busy with the work. Her lips moving with the words of the song. Maa's singing makes Pipli realize that words have shapes. Every letter, alphabet, syllable has a shape. Pipli likes to watch the roundness of her Maa's lips everytime she says srabono or badalo and doesn't want to interrupt the spell. But today Maa did not sing. Pipli knew Maa went out to make tea for herself and Baba. Ever since Pipli has been told that tea is not something kids should ever drink, she keeps wondering what it tastes like. Every time Baba, Maa or their friends drink tea, Pipli thinks one day she will sit down on the broken bench of Ramkaku's tea-stall and drink cups and cups of tea. Just like Baba. On that day, she will also walk on the streets without holding anyone's fingers. Because by that time she will be so properly grown-up. But today was different. Pipli wasn't thinking about tea and Ramkaku's tea-stall at all. Instead, she was wondering what a skirt looks like.
When Baba was reading the piece paper out to Maa, she said, “Ki jwala! What a bother! Why make such little kids wear skirts right away? What's the hurry? They don't even have proper waists yet!” Pipli hadn't realized up till then that she didn't have a waist. When Maa left the room to put the tea leaves in the pot, she lifted up her yellow T-shirt, brought the hand-mirror down to her tummy and felt herself around. But she could not understand what her Maa was getting at. Here it is – her waist, past her tummy and poon-poon, hugging the elastic edge of her brown half-pant. Well, it's smaller than Baba's. Not as round as Maa's and it doesn't have bulges like either of them. But she certainly has a waist. Where she will tuck in a topless-frock called “skirt” once she begins to go to school.
Baba also told Maa how in Pipli's school they will all have to buy the uniforms from this one shop – Ananya Bastrayalaya – and how all three of them should go out this Sunday to get them. School, Pipli thought to herself, is kind of fun. You get to go out. You get to buy things. And when she goes out with Maa and Baba, there is no way Pipli will let it go without an ice-cream. Last time they were out, Pipli had the pink one. But this time, Pipli wants to have a Twin-One. It's half pink and half white. Baba says, it's Two-in-One. Not Twin-One. Vanilla and strawberry together, that's why it is Two-in-One. So you can have just one ice-cream and get the taste of two. But Pipli doesn't know what “vanilla” is. She has heard “strawberry” is a kind of fruit. But Pipli hasn't ever seen one. Pink and white. White and pink. That's all that matter. But Maa had shaken her head vigorously and said, “Kono darkar nei. No need to. Tomorrow, while coming from school, I will buy white and blue fabric. And I will make the clothes myself. That'll be a lot cheaper.” Baba had looked at Pipli from the corner of his eyes and said, “Thik achhe. Okay.”
Maa is always worried about money. Maa has an iron-box and a red earthen goat. Both of them have little holes on them. You can throw a coin in, but you can't take it out. The iron-box has a lock which you can open and take out coins as needed. But the goat, Maa says, you have to break it open to get all the coins inside. Pipli doesn't understand this quite yet. Whenever she hands out her milk to Pipli in a china cup, Maa says, “Hold it well. Make sure you don't drop it. It will break.” The same thing with all the clay dolls from Rather Mela. Pipli is extra careful with them. If she drops them, they will break into little pieces. But then, Maa says, they will have to break the clay-goat open in order to get it. But Pipli likes to touch the horns of the goat, when no one is looking. The black varnished paint feels like silk below her fingers. And its belly protrudes downwards, making Pipli giggle every time she sees it. Maa said to Pipli that as long as it is not full of coins, Pipli can keep the goat with her other toys. Pipli put it in her toy-basket and named the goat “Dhol.” Because it's belly is such a dhol. But last night, after Pipli had gone to bed, Maa had taken out the iron-box, opened the lock and spread coins on the floor. Maa thought Pipli was sleeping, but she wasn't. The sound of the coins had woken her up. Maa spread the coins all on the floor, counted the coins and said to herself, “If worst comes to worst, we have enough to pay bus-fare for the next couple of days. And after that, it's the first of the month. We both get paid.” Maa then carefully put back all the coins and placed the box on the coffee-table near Pipli's bed. As Maa arose, Pipli closed her eyes tightly. After putting the box down, Maa stood outside the mosquito net for a few seconds, looking at Pipli. Pipli knows. Maa said softly to herself, “No, let it be. She will wake up.” When Maa finally left, Pipli opened her eyes again. There was a picture of two little girls and a boy on the iron-box. They were all laughing. The dim-blue light of the night lamp fell on their glistening cheeks and teeth and made them look all blue. Pipli kept looking at them until her eyes began to close. She also wanted siblings. A brother. A brother would be nice. A sister would be nice too.

* * * *
Maa brought the clothes next evening, and she had been sewing ever since. Maa also brought little white buttons, miniscule metal things called “hooks,” in which, if you hold too close to your face, you can see your lips, nose and eyes. All either fattened up or elongated. When Pipli asked Maa what do you do with these little things, Maa said, “They will hold the skirt onto your waist.” Pipli thought, you don't need anything to hold the frock onto yourself. You slip it over your head, put your right hand through one hole and your left through another. And you're done. Pipli wanted to see then and there how a bronze-colored hook holds a skirt up.
“Maa, ooo Maa, bolo naa, what do you do with this,” Pipli had asked while playing with the little box of metal hooks.
“Didn't I tell you just now, that they will keep your skirt fastened to your waist?” Maa had replied, without looking up from the measuring tape and the white cloth.
“Show me how,Maaaa. OOOOOO Maaa.”
“Ufffff. How am I to show you, ahhhh? Do I wear a skirt?” And then, looking at Pipli's fingers rummaging through the box of metal hooks, Maa had said, “You know what, those have sharp ends. And once one of those gets inside your fingers or nails, you wouldn't have any place to go. I am telling you.” Pipli knows the meaning of the thickness of Maa's voice when she says “I am telling you.” If you don't do things exactly the way Maa wants them to be done then, she will continue to speak in that gravelly voice, then shout at you and then will stop talking altogether. And since Pipli didn't want any of that just yet, especially since she was loving the smell of the new clothes and wanted to spend some more time sitting among them, Pipli quickly moved her hand away from the box. Maa took note of that, drew the box closer and, standing up from the bed, put it on the highest shelf. Pipli looked at Maa from the corner of her eye – the shelf is high, but not as high as it should be for Pipli to drag a chair in front of it, get herself up on it and procure whatever she wanted. But Pipli kept quiet – you don't trust adults with everything. Especially your Maa.
But when Maa walked to the shelf, Pipli realized, true, Maa does not wear a skirt. But the petticoat called shaya Maa wears under her sari is a skirt. Only you use laces and ribbons to hold it on to your body. Not hooks. So Maa doesn't wear a proper skirt. Neither does Baba. Nor any of his friends – Pipli's kakus, mamas and jethus. But how do Baba's pants stay on his waist? Do they have hooks too? The next time Baba is here, Pipli will have to see. Maybe that way, Baba will be able to better explain the function of the hooks. At least better than Maa. Who never has to use a hook for her shaya. Pipli felt a strange kind of sadness for Maa – Maa never uses a hook. Yes, that's why. That's why she cannot explain adequately what they are supposed to do. Poor Maa! She never wears a skirt!
But Maa also had the fabrics. While and blue. “Terri-cotton,” Maa said they are called. When Pipli touched them, the white yarn felt soft and slippery against her fingers. A little bit like Maa's maroon and black silk saree. The blue rough and heavy. They were not the same. And although, both of them smelled of newness, they didn't smell the same way either. The white one smelled like the twenty-four shade oil-pastel crayons which Pipli has just gotten from Ranjan Kaku. And the blue smells heavy – like the inside of a newly polished and coaled earthen unon oven. But they had the same name. When Pipli said this to her Maa, and asked why, Maa said, “Aar pari na bapu, tor proshner thelai. You and your endless questions. Now listen carefully, Pipli, I have a lot to do. Don't bother me. Go and play out of my sight.” But Pipli wanted to ask one more thing. Just one more.

* * * *

Pipli loves blue. Not as much as she loves green, but pretty close. But the cloth Maa has brought for her is not blue. Not exactly. It is more black than blue. Pipli was afraid that if she asks about it now, Maa will get angry and might even hit her. But she still wanted to know. So Pipli hovered around the door for three or four minutes, pretending as if she is about to leave. And watched Maa work. Maa sat on one of legs, the left one, her stomach touching the thighs. The right leg stood straight up, the sole of her feet touching the ochre-yellow bedspread. Maa's chin touched her knee. Or rather the faded yellow-orange sari which covered her knee. Maa was measuring the clothes with the tape and writing down things in the notebook. And sometimes she sipped on the cup of tea, without looking up. Maa likes her tea without sugar or milk. Raw chaa, she calls it. Unlike Baba. Who must have his tea with lots of milk and cardamom. Maa says to people, “Pipli's Baba likes liquor and me the flavor.” And when she talks to Ranjan Kaku or Biswa Kaku, she says , “Your Abudaa” instead of “Pipli's Baba.” Without having tasted tea once, Pipli doesn't understand the difference. Nor does she know the meanings of the words “liquor” or “flavor.” The only thing is, Maa's tea is orangish brown. Baba's is whitish brown, much like the color of Pipli's skin and thicker. Now, as Maa's fingers moved through and between the blue and white fabrics, the measuring tape and the notebook, it seemed to Pipli that Maa can go on forever like this. Without even once looking up at her or noticing her. While humming wordlessly a tune which Pipli couldn't recognize. And possibly Maa would have gone on like that for a long time if not for the power-cut. As the ceiling fan stopped moving, Maa looked up and said to herself, “ Ei Jah! Chole Gelo. Gone. And no one knows when it will come back!” Pipli laughed out loud. There was something very funny in the way Maa had looked up and uttered those words.
It is the sound of that laugh that finally gave Pipli out. Maa did not get angry this time. Instead, she looked in the direction of the old-sari-now-turned-into-a-curtain, which Pipli was wrapping up around herself, smiled and said, “Oo Maa, you still here? You haven't gone out to play?” Seeing this to be the only chance she might have throughout the entire evening, before Maa goes off to cook, Pipli asked “Eta ki rang, Maa? What color is this, Maa?” Even this time around, Maa did not get angry. “This is navy blue, shona.”
Pipli knows what “blue” means. But she does not know what is “navy.”
“Maa, navy mane kii? Maa, what is the meaning of the word “navy”?”
“It's kind of blue, shona. You know, there are different kinds of blue? Sky blue, feroze blue, turquoise blue, royal blue....”
“Noooooooo....I want to know what 'navy' means.”
Maa looked on intently at Pipli for a few seconds. And exactly when Pipli was regretting the extra syllables in her “nooooooooo,” Maa climbed down from the bed again, walked slowly towards the bookshelf and brought down the fat book. Pipli knows the name of this book. “Dishhaniory” – Maa and Baba call it.

* * * *

The book called Dishhaniory is thick, fat and big. With a paper cover of blue, green, red and white. Maa brings it down, but rather than going up on the bed again, sits down on the low wooden stool right next to the bed. Pipli slowly begins to move closer until she can almost touch Maa's knees. Maa is busy flipping through the book – she does not notice. There are little moist beads on Maa's forehead, cheeks and right above the upper lip. Maa's hairs have been tightly woven into a bun at the back of her head. The few loose ones hovering on her forehead are now moist with sweat and cling to the skin of her forehead. The skin under Maa's eyes is darker than the rest of her face. And there are little wrinkles there, which are now smeared with sweat. Maa keeps rubbing the sweat off her face as she flips through the pages of the book.
Once more than halfway through the book, Maa pauses. The book does not have any pictures. Only very small black letters, some blacker than others, Pipli notices. Maa begins to read straight out of the book, “Navy...the branch of a state's armed services which conducts military operations at sea... Origin Old French navie 'ship,' 'fleet from Latin navis 'ship.'” Maa looks up at Pipli, translates what she had just read out word by word in Bangla and then asks, “Bujechho? Did you get it?” Pipli nods her head sideways. Maa pauses, “Mane holo giye jalashainya...people who fight from water and ships.” Pipli performed her obedient little nod. Who knows what ships have to do with blue? But you don't really need to understand everything. You can't either. At least sometimes.
Maa snaps the book shut, puts it back on the shelf and, exuding the air that she is done with the navy, ships and Pipli for the rest of her life, gets on the bed and takes up her measurements. Again. Without looking at Pipli once. Pipli, after throwing a glance at the part of the bookshelf where the fat book dishhaniory stands, looks at the big drop of sweat which falls onto the white fabric from the skin beneath Maa's nose. The front porch is fun, much more fun. You can see the sky and talk to the elephant clouds. The sky is blue now. Very light blue. Not white like it was this noon.
But the quick glance had done something – Pipli now knows that the blue in the dishhaniory cover is the same as as her school uniform skirt. Navy blue.

Postscript: Pipli, my little one. Amar chotto shona. Haven't heard from her for a long time. What is she doing? So quiet quiet?...Okay, she is in the front porch...looking up at the sky...her little lips saying something...her little index finger making shapes in the air...what story is my shona telling herself now? Anyway, I really must get going with this uniform.... Thank god, the sky is not navy blue.

Glossary of the Bengali Words or Phrases Used:

Amar Chotto Shona: My Little Darling
Baba: Father
Badalo baul bajaye bajaye bajaye re:Another Monsoon Song by the Indian writer and Nobel Laureate Rabindranath Tagore
Bujechho: Did you understand?
Chaa: Tea
Chole Gelo: It's gone
Dhol: A kind of Indian drumming instrument
Ei Jah!: Another expression of exclamation
Jalashainya: Navy
Jethu: Uncle. Father's Older Brother. Also used for father's friends or as a general mark of respect
Kaku: Uncle. Father's Younger Brother. Also used for father's friends or as a general mark of respect
Ki Jwala: What a bother
Kono Darkar Nei: No Need To
Maa: Mother
Mama: Uncle. Mother's Brother. Also used for father's friends or as a general mark of respect
Mane Holo giye Jalashainya: You know it means navy
Oo Maa: An expression of surprise
poon-poon:navel in child's language
Shona: Literally mans “gold.” But also used as a term of endearment
Srabano ghono gahana mohe: A Monsoon Song by the Indian writer and Nobel Laureate Rabindranath Tagore
Thik Achhe:Okay