Born Behind Bars

Beyond the bars, framed by the high, square window, slides a small patch of sky. For months, it’s been as gray as the faded paint flaking off the walls, but today it’s blue and gold. Bright as a happy song.

My thoughts, always eager to escape, shoot out and try to picture the whole sky —even the whole huge world.

But my imagination has many missing pieces, like the jigsaw puzzle in the schoolroom. All I’ve learned here in nine years from my mother and my teachers is not enough to fill the gaps.

Still, it doesn’t stop me from imagining we’re free, Amma and me, together, exploring the wide-open world that lives beyond the bars.

Up! Up!” our guard yells at us. I call her Mrs. Snake because she hisses at us every morning. “Lazy donkeys!” She’s the meanest of the guards but also the most elegant, with her neatly combed hair pinned into a tight knot.

Looking at her crisp khaki uniform and shiny boots always makes me feel extra scruffy. I wiggle my bare toes. At least I have slippers. Amma and the other women go barefoot.

My mother’s hands reach to cover my ears as the other guards join in, calling us worse names than donkeys. Doesn’t Amma know I can hear them anyway?

Doesn’t she remember I’ve turned nine today?

I’m no baby, but I don’t shove her hands away. I like her fingertips tickling my ears, even though Amma’s skin is as rough as the concrete floor. Only one thing in this room is soft: Amma’s voice, saying, “Looks like the rainy season is over and the sun-god wants to wish you a happy birthday, Kabir.”

“Today’s your birthday? Best wishes, Kabir.” Aunty Cloud gives me a quick smile and returns her gaze to the floor. Aunty Cloud likes looking at the floor as much as I like watching the sky.

“You think Bedi Ma’am will bring me a treat?” I ask.

“Of course,” Amma says. “Your teacher is fond of you.”

“Almost twice as old as he should be to sttill be living here,” Grandma Knife cuts in. “Too old.”

Too old for what? Everyone in this cell is way older than me, and she’s by far the oldest. I give Amma a questioning look, but she avoids my eyes. Grandma Knife stretches her long arms and rolls up her straw mat. “Can’t believe you’re, what, nine? You still look as small as a six-year-old.” I slip my hand into Amma’s, where it feels safe tucked inside her palm.

Grandma Knife is not family. Grandma Knife isn’t her real name, either, just what I call her in my head, because it fits with her sharp tongue. Amma forces me to call all the women living in our room aunty or sister or grandma, though we were just packed in together by the guards.

Only Amma and I are family. At least, Amma and I are the only family I’ve seen with my eyes—the others I’ve only imagined from stories she’s told me on nights when she wasn’t too tired.

Everyone in our cell is awake now except Mouse Girl, the newcomer. She manages to sleep through the morning racket—until Grandma Knife’s big toe prods her, making her yelp.

Only last night, a guard shoved Mouse Girl into our room. She stood by the door, twitching with fear, until Amma waved her over to us.

“You can squeeze in here.” Amma yanked our mat closer to the wall to make space where there wasn’t any.

“She didn’t say thank you,” I whispered.

“Her eyes did,” Amma said, but I only saw them fill with tears. “She’s just a teenager,” Amma said. “So young.” I’m a lot younger, but I always remember to say thank you.

Mouse Girl is quiet, but she appears to be quite sneaky too. She tries pushing past Aunty Cloud to be the first out the door for the bathroom.

“Respect your elders!” Grandma Knife’s bony fingers clamp around Mouse Girl’s wrists like handcuffs. Mouse Girl stumbles back and steps on Aunty Cloud’s feet.

Aunty Cloud doesn’t say a thing, just floats by, ghostlike.

As I shuffle forward, Grandma Knife cracks her knuckles. I try to keep from peeking at her fingers, but I can’t help sneaking a look. Grandma Knife’s hands are strong enough to snap a rat’s neck. I’ve seen her do it.

Amma says we should be thankful for Grandma Knife’s incredible fingers, and I know Grandma Knife helps keep us safe, but I can’t help fearing she’ll someday pounce on me.