The In-Between World of Vikram Lall by M. G. Vassanji Page A

and the monkey god Hanuman. Lakshmi was the goddess of wealth and was also worshipped during Diwali. The sweet shop was owned by Gujarati banyas, those special disciples of the goddess, according to Papa, who would crawl on hands and knees even for a chavani, a fifty-cent coin. Mother often wished there was a Punjabi sweet shop around, like those at Bengali Market in Delhi. I did not understand how Bengalis could make Punjabi sweets and Gujaratis could not. And besides, Mother did not think much of the dark Bengalis anyway.

    But in the couple of weeks before the great day, our house was transformed into a heavenly place reflective of the glorious Ayodhya of ancient India. Smiling Mother appeared in bright saris or shalwar-kameez, taking any opportunity to make halwa or kheer, regaling Papa and the two of us with stories of how Dussehra, the actual day of Rama’s victory, was celebrated in her native Peshawar—while in our home in East Africa light shades were draped in colourful streamer paper to become mysterious and magical lanterns, auspicious swastika signs made of sparkles appeared on all bedroom doors, and the gods’ corner glimmered and shimmered with lights and glossy crinkled paper in green, gold, and silver. And Papa felt more loved as the Rama of the house, the dutiful son, husband, and father. Thus addressed, he would do the puja with Mother in the mornings, then head for the shop with an orange tilak-mark on his forehead. The Hindustani service of KBC told Rama stories, recited or narrated in a language Deepa and I barely understood, but they gave our mother her cues and she would make the two of us, and sometimes Njoroge, and sometimes a boyish Papa, sit and listen to the adventures of the wondrous and righteous Rama, his dutiful wife Sita and brother Lakshmana, and his resourceful monkey companion and general Hanuman.
    Once upon a time in the kingdom of Ayodhya ruled a wise old king called Dasaratha. He had a wonderful son called Rama, brave and honest and respectful, and also a great archer. It was because of his prowess with his bow that he won as his wife the princess Sita, who was the daughter of another wise old king called Janaka—but that is another story. Rama had a half-brother called Bharata, whose mother Kaikeyi was jealous of Rama. Like all mothers she wanted the best for her own son. She desired very much that Bharata, and not the older Rama, should become king after Dasaratha. So she connived that Rama should be sent into exile. Rama left for the forest with his wife Sita. Rama had another half-brother called Lakshmana, who loved him very much and decided to go withhim. And Bharata, who was also good, did not sit on the throne after his father, but placed Rama’s slippers upon it instead, thus wrecking his jealous mother’s evil design.
    You know, Papa said, it always amazes me that Rama would not stand up for his rights—explain to his father what the situation was. And was old Dasaratha such a fool as to believe—
    That was a different time, Mother strained to explain, it was a more righteous age when duty to a parent was the highest of virtues, and the word of a parent was beyond question! Don’t you remember the story of Shravan?
    One story to explain another. Why couldn’t Rama use his head and save himself?
    Absolutely right, Bhaiya, Mahesh Uncle boisterously butted in. I agree with you one hundred percent—such problems abound in religious stories. In fact when Sita returns after her ordeal in the forest, and doubt is cast on her purity—
    Mother put her hands to her ears. I don’t want to hear that! I know all about your objections!
    They both laughed, sharing a secret from a wealth of common memories, and it seemed that Papa for a moment was by himself.
    Sita had been kidnapped by the wily Ravana, who assumed the shape of a wounded doe to appeal to her soft woman’s heart and entice her to approach, while Rama was out hunting and Lakshmana, who should have looked after his