The house was full of people, but none of them cared about the nine-year-old running in and out of their rooms.   

BY SHARMILA POKHAREL

IMAGE BY MEAHA CAUDLE-CHOI

Mother  and I were on our way to my sister’s house, which usually took ten minutes from our village in a rickshaw. The driver lowered the collapsible hood to shade us from the bright sunlight, but he didn’t have any shade himself. 

My mother’s hand gripped a tiny pink sweater. She had stayed up last night knitting it for Uma’s newborn. She had prepared deep-fried mutton, rice with lots of butter, and chicken soup. We also brought a home-made wooden bookshelf, just like the one in our house. Mine had stacks of poetry, stories, and inspirational books. 

When we reached Uma’s house, her husband opened the front door. His mouth smelled like rotten grapes.  Uma was sitting on a thin woolen mattress in a corner of her room feeding her newborn. She didn’t say a word, but her eyes and face shone when she saw us. 

“What name did you choose for her?” Mother asked. 

“She has the same name as the goddess of power, Durga.” Uma’s face glimmered once again.

“Did your mother-in-law say anything after you gave birth to a fourth daughter?” Mother whispered. 

Uma opened her mouth then closed it, as if the wall might hear her talk, and she might be in trouble. The meaning of my mother’s question went over my head.  

I ran around Uma’s house, peeking through each door and touching the faded posters hung on the corridor walls. The house was full of people, but none of them cared about the nine-year-old running in and out of their rooms.   

Finally, I passed through a room which had one small, grilled window. A woman was sitting on a  gundri and  knitting a black sweater. Uma's mother-in-law. 

“Aunty, Namaskar!” I stepped inside and greeted her. 

“I heard some annoying noises as if someone was moving furniture. Did you people bring something today?”  She was still looking at the sweater in her lap. 

“Yes Aunty. It's a bookshelf with a glass door that opens both ways. It’s got lots of shelves and the wood is enamelled!” I replied. 

 Uma’s mother-in-law scratched her head; dandruff fell on the mud floor.  The baby cried. She made a face.  

“How tall is it?”  

“The bookcase is about half my size,” I said.  

She brought her fingers up to her eyes and looked at her nails. Her wrinkles shrank when she smiled.  I wanted to go back to my mother. 

“You’d better put it in here.” She pointed to a corner of her room. 

I could no longer tolerate her smile. Later, when Uma’s mother-in-law began snoring on her gundri and the baby quieted down, I crept up to the bookshelf.  

I carved lines into it, over and over. 

And much later, long after Mother and I returned home in the rickshaw, the bookshelf stood in Uma’s room; her daughters’ names engraved on it. 

Sharmila Pokharel is a bilingual poet from Nepal. Currently a graduate student at Humber School for Writers, she has a BE in civil engineering and an MA in sociology. She came to Canada in 2010 with her husband.

Image: Meaha Caudle-Choi, Trash Princess, gouache paint, and gilding on wood (2019).

Edited for publication by Parishae Ali, as part of the Professional Writing and Communications Program.

The HLR Spotlight is a collaboration between the Faculty of Media & Creative Arts and the Faculty of Liberal Arts & Sciences and Innovative Learning at Humber College in Toronto, Ontario. This project is funded by Applied Research & Innovation.