The Story I Needed

Most days in third grade went similarly; I would speed through the day, most days successfully avoiding the gaze of most of my classmates, but mostly unsuccessful in avoiding the snickers and whispers. This particular day, I sat at my desk, listening to my teacher drone on about either something the South Carolina curriculum propagandized into “history” or the foreign concept of rounding numbers. Third grade was a simpler time.  The day was almost over and our substitute teacher had grumbled his way down afternoon attendance, getting dangerously close to my name. I’d already prayed to every god I could remember, hoping the bell would ring before he got to me, but no such luck.  I raised my hand, not even bothering to correct his absolute butchery of my name, and heard a few kids behind me snicker. The sub stopped to look up, but the bell rang and before he could say anything, half of us were out the door. I led the way, eyes low and pace set to the beat of Starships by Nicki Minaj.

As usual, Mom picked us up and dropped my sister and I off at Ba’s house. The moment we arrived, Ba smothered us in her embrace and herded us indoors. She had already set out our favorite meal - macaroni and cheese with a dash of ketchup - so we ran into the dining room, sliding across the slippery vinyl floors in our socks.

“Don’t do that, beta!! You’ll fall and hurt yourself!” Ba scolded in Hindi, but as always the smile on her face gave her away. “Eat up,” she said with a familiar twinkle in her eye,  “I have something special in the drawer to show you today.”

My sister and I shoveled down the macaroni and galloped up the stairs to her room, glancing at one another in anticipation. In the corner of the room was the large, chestnut dresser with an upper compartment and three drawers below. The upper portion contained Ba and Dada’s clothes, as did the first two drawers of the lower portion of the dresser. The last drawer, however, was home to various trinkets and toys that Ba had saved over many years and would surprise us with when we came to see her. From little toy cars to bangles she would break into pieces for a makeshift board game - she always had something. We sat, legs crossed, on either side of her, craning our necks to watch as she carefully opened the drawer, almost feeling a golden light from inside illuminating our faces.

After going back downstairs, my sister plopped onto the couch to watch T.V. with Dada and to play with her new race cars. Meanwhile, I meandered over to the dining room and my attention shifted to the ring on my hand. It was big; too loose and heavy on my small finger, so I let it slip off and ran it down the luminous, gold chain Ba gave me to wear it around my neck. My fingers trailed down the chain to the ring and followed the design around the gems. I lifted my gaze and watched them catch the light from the dusty chandelier above and send reflections dancing across the room. After finishing her work, Ba came over to the patch of the dining room floor where I sat. 

“So, what will we play today, beta?”

“Actually, Ba, can I ask you something?”

“Why are you asking me, dobi? Just demand, ‘Ba! I have a question you must answer!’” She smiled the way only grandmothers can; her eyes twinkled and crinkled up around the edges.

Her wrinkles looked like writing on a page; deep smile lines and deeper worry lines on her forehead, but no angry crinkle between her eyebrows like Dada.

I smiled back and sheepishly brought out the ring.

“Ba, where did you get this from? Some of my… friends from school might ask about it and I don’t know what to tell them.”

Ba paused for a minute and looked at me with an expression I recognized. Her smile fell for a heartbeat and the lines on her forehead deepened, but in the next moment she lit up again.

“Well that is a fantastic story, beta. Come, sit here while I tell you.”

I crawled over to her and laid my head on her lap. She stroked my hair and brushed it off my face as she began her story, this time in Gujarati, as she always did when she told stories of back home.

“When I was young, we lived under the rule of a great king we called ‘Maharaj.’ My father Mohanlal - who I called Baba - was an advisor to the king. Baba was a humble man who worked long hours every day and never asked for anything more than what the king gave him, but Maharaj was generous and always gave Baba enough to take care of our family.  After my eldest brother’s wedding, Baba went to see Maharaj and found him pacing anxiously. 

‘What is wrong Maharaj?’ asked Baba.

‘There is great cause for worry, my friend,’ the king says, pacing up and down the middle of the royal court, ‘Our crops are failing and the farmers of the village are struggling. Due to the shortage, I have waived the taxes placed on our people, but the treasury is almost empty! I even wrote to the king in the neighboring village. They have crops, but they cannot afford to give us food for free since the British came through and took their valuables. The village is on the brink of starvation!’

‘Maharaj,’ said Baba, ‘do not worry. This is what you have your advisors for. Let us come together and we will find a solution to our problem.’

At his council, Maharaj called a meeting of the royal court. The other court members bickered back and forth, unable to agree upon a way to save their village from bankruptcy and starvation. Maharaj grew more anxious.

‘Come, men! There must be a way for us to help our people! They have been kind and understanding citizens. Can we not even keep them safe? How can we call ourselves the royal court of the people if we can’t protect them from this?’

Just then, a seed of an idea popped into Baba’s head. Remaining quiet throughout the meeting, he deliberated on this seed until finally, it blossomed into a foolproof plan. By this time, the frustrated king had dismissed the court and sat at the base of his throne with his hand over his eyes, feeling more helpless than ever.

‘How can I call myself king, Mohanlal? How can I when I can’t help my people in their greatest time of need?’

Baba turned to face the king, determination in his eyes, ‘Maharaj, do not worry. I have found a solution. It was right in front of our eyes all along.’

The king’s face lit up with hope, ‘You have? Tell me, Mohanlal! How can we prevent this catastrophe?’

‘The answer, Maharaj, is your people.’

‘No, Mohanlal, we can’t. We cannot involve the people; a good king shouldn’t place his burdens upon his subjects. Besides, they have nothing left to give.’

‘Maharaj, the reason your reign has been so fruitful for the people of our village is that you always put them before yourself and they know this. Now is the time for you to allow them the opportunity to help the king that has helped them so much in the past. They have not forgotten how many times you have forgiven their debts, waived their taxes, or provided them with justice in your court. The answer to our problem is the people. Trust me, sir.’

Baba’s wise words convinced the king to go to his people for help.  A large gathering of the village was held where Maharaj told the people of his predicament and before he could say anything more, people threw themselves at his feet, ready to give up anything to help their righteous leader.

‘No, my people. I do not want to take your possessions from you. I have come to ask for your hands. We have plenty of merchants in our village, the mango trees have done very well this year, and all our women know how to sew and craft fine jewelry. Perhaps we can use these strengths to bring back some money to the treasury, so I may pay the neighboring king for food for our children, if nothing else.’

The village readily agreed. Scouts were chosen to make deals with distant kingdoms and to spread word of what their village had to offer. Women crafted the finest jewelry seen for miles and sold it faster than it could be made. Villagers donated cloth to be made into beautiful garments to sell and tailors offered to repair garments for travelers. Farmers offered their labor to farms in neighboring villages for a share of their crops and skilled cooks made delicious sweets from the sweet mango trees to be sent out and sold. Anyone that could provide any kind of service did and quickly, the treasury was filled completely! With these funds, Maharaj held a grand feast for everyone and bought food from nearby villages to last them until the next crop.

A few months later, Baba went to see the king  just as he did every day. Maharaj had called for a meeting of the royal court and as everyone settled, he called upon Baba to stand before him.

‘Mohanlal, our village owes you a debt of gratitude. Not only did you save us all and defend my honor, you have brought prosperity to the people. Our merchants are selling more than ever, and the village wants for nothing. You have helped to restructure the economy of our village in a way that will sustain the village for generations to come.’

Baba lowered his head humbly and Maharaj continued, ‘Your wisdom and humility has doubled my respect for you, my friend. For your noble actions, I now pronounce you the Chief Advisor to the King indefinitely. I thank you for the way you have loyally served me throughout the years and as a token of my gratitude, I would like to give you this small gift.’

The king stood up and removed from his pinky finger a large ring and placed it in the palm of Baba’s hand.

A few years after that, I married your Dada. Before I left home, Baba enclosed the ring in my hand and asked me to pass it on in my family to tell them of our legacy and what it means to be a part of our family.”

I stayed quiet for a moment. 

“So what does it mean to be a part of our family, Ba?”

She looks down at my wide-eyed face and smiles.

“Baba was a wise man, beta. I see that his wisdom was passed down to you. People will try to cut you down, but you must always remember where you come from. You are more than what children at school say to you. You are more than what people in our family tell you you should be. You are smart and capable of changing lives; it’s in your blood.

She carefully lifted my hair and placed the necklace the ring hung from around my neck.

“Keep this ring to remind you that Ba is always with you just as I knew that Baba would always be with me.”

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Many years later, I sat with Ba on the first anniversary of Dada’s passing. It was quiet in the house; we were surrounded by clouds of our own thoughts. We would look up occasionally, often forgetting the other was there. I spun the ring around my pointer finger, as I had so many times before, before taking it off and showing it to her.

“Ba? Do you remember this ring?” My words felt too loud even at a low whisper and Ba seemed startled at the sound of my voice, but her words came out strong and clear like the sweet tone of a songbird.

“Yes, I do beta.”

“Do you remember the story you told me about it? Was it real?”

“In some ways, yes. In other ways, no.”

“Why, Ba?”

She looked more tired than I remembered and the lines on her face were more pronounced, but when she smiled, the twinkle in her eyes remained the same . 

“My Baba was the greatest man I ever knew and a trusted advisor to the king. That was true, but the ring did not come from him; honestly, I’m so old now that I don’t remember where it came from anymore. You needed something to hold on to, beta. You’re a smart girl, but you allow others’ opinions of you to hold you back from achieving your full potential - both at home and at school.”

“I didn’t know you knew about school.”

“Of course I did, dobi,” she smiled cheekily, “you should know that I know you better than you know yourself.” 

I couldn’t help but smile, shaking my head.

Ba pulled my head into her lap and stroked my hair, pushing it off my face, “I didn’t tell you that story to fool you, beta. You needed a story to make you feel as special as you are. It was the story you needed.”

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The ring never left my possession. In times of hardship, I grip it to remind myself of Ba’s constant presence and that her and my great-grandfather’s wisdom will always help me find my way. One day, it will provide a source of inspiration for my own grandchildren. I will tell them the story and the reason why Ba created it for me. It was the story I needed. 

Palak Trivedi