Anjali Banerjee:

An earlier version of this story appeared in Mobius: The Journal of Social Change, and in LYNX EYE.

ORDINARY CHILDREN

Mira’s father, Baba, knows everything. He tells stories about India and explains how the world works. He says although the prairies look flat, the earth is actually round. If Mira were to cross the Winnipeg River and trek southwest for ten thousand miles, she would eventually reach Bombay, her birthplace. He says she comes from a country rich with culture, so she shouldn’t worry when kids call her names. They’re merely envious.

On Mira’s eighth birthday, Baba tells the story of the evil rickshaw driver who hunts children in the Himalayas. It’s an icy December night, and Mira sits by the fireplace with her best friends, Qui and Kelly. Mira loves the family room the kitchen takes up one half — because she can warm herself by the fire and watch Ma cook at the same time. Ma is frying an Indian vindaloo that smells of sweet onion and pepper.

“The rickshaw-walla comes out at dusk,” Baba says. “He looks just like an ordinary person, but for one thing. His feet point backward.”

Qui and Kelly let out a collective gasp. Kelly covers her face with chubby hands. Her straight hair is the color of uncooked spaghetti. Qui sits still, her face frozen in fright. Her pale, waxy skin reminds Mira of a doll Baba brought from Japan, only Qui isn’t from Japan; she arrived on a boat from Vietnam.

“I’ve seen the rickshaw-walla eat children.” Baba winks at Mira. “He especially loves skinny ones.”

Mira shivers and stares into the fire. Flames lick the cinders like demons dancing to some horrible rhythm. She has been to India once and remembers the rickshaw drivers’ sinewy legs as black as charred logs. What sort of rickshaw driver would eat a child? Maybe one with a menacing grin and a mole next to his nose, like Sandy, the boy who calls her “chocolate face” in the schoolyard.

“There is one way to fight the rickshaw-walla,” Baba says. “You must distract him.” He scratches his beard.

“Don’t tell them scary stories,” Ma scolds from the kitchen. She pulls an ice tray from the freezer and gasps. “I was so busy listening to you, I’ve got my fingers stuck.” She runs water over her hand until her skin peels off the tray.

“My brother got his tongue stuck once,” Kelly says.

“Shhh,” Mira says. “Go on, Baba.”

Baba lowers his voice. “The rickshaw-walla is just a demon, you see, and demons aren’t too smart. I told him I was a grown-up and he believed me and left me alone.”

Mira breathes a sigh of relief. Qui looks puzzled, as if she doesn’t believe Baba, but says nothing.

* * *

Monday morning, Mira, Qui and Kelly make a snowman on the playground at recess. The air feels icy and there’s no wind; snowflakes flutter down like tiny white butterflies. Qui and Kelly traipse off to find twigs for the snowman’s hair. Mira rolls a snowball for the head. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Sandy approach in a thick snowsuit. He stops in front of her and says,

“Nigger.”

Melting snow seeps between her mittens and the cuffs of her parka. Her wrists are numb. Sandy has a pudgy, baby face. His mole looks like a huge, round beetle.

“Nigger,” he says again.

A knot tightens in her stomach. She can’t ignore him any longer. He’s right in her face.

“I’m an Indian,” she says. Perhaps he will understand his mistake. She knows a Nigger is a Negro, but there are no Negroes in her town and only a few Indians.

Sandy bats his mouth with his mittens and hops around whooping like the Indians in Westerns.

“Not a Red Indian.” Mira’s bottom lip trembles.

“Then what? Are you half Nigger and half white or what?”

If only he would leave. She turns away and climbs up the monkey bars. Sandy follows, stops and stands beneath her. Two skinny boys hover behind him. “Did your mother rub your face in poop?” Sandy’s voice sounds so clear and calm, she can’t imagine why her heart flutters so much. Her skin isn’t all that dark. It doesn’t look like any poop she’s ever seen, though perhaps it looks like Sandy’s poop. She’s never seen Sandy’s poop so she doesn’t know for sure.

“Chocolate face,” another boy shouts up, then the bell rings and the boys turn and run back toward the school.

Mira jumps to the ground and lies on her back. Snowflakes melt on her face. She imagines Sandy sprawled in the snow, blood seeping out around him.

Qui and Kelly appear above her, each holding a clump of twigs.

“What’s wrong with you?” Kelly asks.

“Sandy called me a Nigger.” The word tastes like poison on her tongue.

Qui blinks the way she does in class when the teacher calls on her. Her face screws up into a tense expression.

“What’s a Nigger?” Kelly asks.

“I can’t believe you don’t know,” Qui says.

“I know what it is. I don’t have to tell you.”

“You don’t know,” Qui says.

They don’t know what it feels like, Mira thinks. She gets up and stomps toward the school.

* * *

The next day, Kelly and Qui are waiting outside for Mira after class. Qui’s eyes are red-rimmed. Kelly looks anxious.

“I’m scared of the rickshaw man,” Qui says. “I don’t want to walk home by myself.” She bursts into tears.

“The rickshaw guy lives in India,” Mira says, but a shiver goes through her.

“Walk with me.” Qui’s voice quivers. Air condenses from her mouth and billows up into the sky.

“Okay, Okay. We’ll walk halfway with you,” Mira says.

Qui heads off through the schoolyard, Mira and Kelly in tow. When Qui reaches the road, her parka orange beneath a street lamp, the two skinny boys rush up and wrestle her to the ground. Then Sandy arrives. “Chink!” he yells at Qui. “Go back to China!”

Mira stands mesmerized. Have the boys seen her? Do they know Chocolate Poop-face is here? What do they have to yell at Qui about?

Kelly whispers, “What should we do?”

Mira’s heart thuds. She has to do something, but what? She’s no match for these boys. She has never fought anyone.

“Hey!” She dashes forward.

“What do you want?” Sandy yells.

“Let go of Qui!”

“Yeah, let go of her!” Kelly echoes.

“Wanna make me?” Sandy sits on Qui she’s face down and rubs snow in her hair.

Mira thinks fast. Her father’s face pops into her mind. He wags his finger. Distract them, he says. Distract them.

“I bet you,” she shouts at Sandy. “I bet you’re a chicken!” She squawks and prances around with her elbows flapping.

“I am not a chicken.” Sandy gets up and lunges at her. She sidesteps him.

“I bet if you lick the metal on that lamp, your tongue will stick to it forever.”

Sandy grins at her. “It will not.” The other two boys are watching, and Qui is still face down in the snow. Perhaps she’s playing dead.

“Chicken,” Mira says.

“I’ll show you.” Sandy strides to the lamp and sticks his tongue onto the pole. Mira holds her breath. Her heart pounds. She inches her way to Qui.

“Ahh,” Sandy says in a muffled voice, “Heeeellll.” He’s not saying “Hell.” He’s trying to say “Help.” His tongue is stuck, and drool drips from his chin. Mira wants to wrench him away from the pole, but this could be disastrous. The other two boys look frightened. They back off and run away.

“Don’t move,” Mira says to Sandy. “You need warm water. Then your tongue will come off--” Before she finishes speaking, Kelly charges over to Sandy and jerks his head back. His tongue rips off the pole, leaving skin behind on metal. Blood runs over his lips. He wails, covers his mouth and shuffles away across the street.

Mira and Kelly run over to Qui. They kneel down and turn her over. Her face looks soaked and puffy. Her lips are blue, but she’s breathing. Mira shakes her, and finally Qui’s eyelashes flutter.

Kelly sits back in the snow and starts to cry. A car approaches and stops, and a man and a woman get out and come running. They bend over Qui and ask questions.

Mira gets up and backs off. Her eyelids feel heavy. She could lie in the snow and fall asleep. The grown-ups don’t seem to notice her; they’re intent on helping Qui.

The sky has grown black and stars shine like tiny shards of ice. Mira considers telling Baba that she distracted Sandy and he was stupid enough to listen, but she resolves to keep quiet. Although she has won for the moment, she does not feel victorious. She remembers Sandy’s sobs, blood dripping from his mouth. She wonders if his tongue will heal, if his mother will comfort him. He seems almost harmless now, just like an ordinary boy.