Rami has always liked carrying things in his pockets.
They make him feel grounded. If his pockets aren’t filled to the brim, he fears he might just float away into the deep, open skies of the village.
He used to look up into the night sky when he was younger, the stars shimmering like his mother’s favorite bejeweled sari, and wish he could gather up the stars into the creases of his pants just to listen to them tinkle around like marbles.
His father had explained to him last year, right before moving across the world, that stars were not marbles, but fiery balls of gas that could burn up even an entire adult human. The information had instilled in him a fear he didn’t understand, so since then, he found ways to anchor himself to the earth so he doesn’t accidentally get burned.
Today, he chooses to carry seven items: three in his right pocket, and four in his left. He prefers odd numbers, even if it sometimes makes him feel imbalanced. His mother and aunties had been busy packing all morning, but he had skirted around the suitcases, on the lookout for any interesting knick-knacks that had fallen out. His right pocket contains a smooth purple pebble, a blue stone that had fallen out of one of his auntie’s earrings, and a crumpled notebook paper his little sister had scribbled a flower onto. In his left pocket is the top half of a broken wooden elephant, a coin worth one rupee, a broken rubber band (in case he runs into any BadGuys and needs to makeshift a bow and arrow on a whim), and a snail shell.
The older boys from a road down had spread salt over the poor snail and watched as it withered away in agony, despite his cries for them to stop, and he had kept it as tribute to its memory. He wished he could burn it into ash so that the smoke would carry its soul up into heaven to join the rest of the stars, like his family had recently done with his grandfather’s body after his death, but he was too scared of fire to attempt it.
Pockets sufficiently full, he pats the items, listening as they shift and rattle against one another, and steps outside the house.
“Come home quickly!” His mother calls from the kitchen, her voice drowned out by the whistle of the pressure cooker. “You have to eat!”
“I’m just saying hi to the aunties!” He calls back, which is mostly true.
He kicks at stray rocks that fall upon his path on the dirt road, looking up to smile at the aunties and uncles calling his name to say hello.
“How is your mom, beta?” Rojee auntie asks as he walked by, crouched near a basket to scrub at dirty clothes. A shawl covers her head to protect her from the sun.
“Good!” He shoots her a one-toothed beam.
“Take care of her while your baba is away, you’re a big boy now.”
“I know.”
“When is your family going to join him in Umreeka, beta?”
“Soon,” he says, unsure. They had been packing for weeks, months, years. At least, that’s how it felt to Rami, who is starting to get tired of the flurry and excitement from all the adults coming in and out of his home bearing gifts and well wishes to his mother.
He doesn’t really know what Umreeka is, but the adults often speak of it highly. He knows people there have white skin and yellow hair and everybody is rich. One time his uncle had shown him a movie set in Umreeka where all of the streets were clean and all of the white men were walking around with a machine in their hands that rang loudly and shot out fast pebbles.
He had wondered if his father had developed white skin and yellow hair and become rich too, or if his father had a car. He has never been in a car before; he has always been sandwiched between his parents on their motorcycle during trips to the market, although now his mother rode alone. He misses being on the motorcycle with his father, who used to come home from the office and take him on rides around the village. His sister, who is only four – three entire years younger than him – isn’t even old enough to remember baba, which he thinks is a shame.
He shuffles along further, quickening his pace and calling a clumsy goodbye to Rojee Auntie over his shoulder. He doesn’t want to entertain her too long in case she decides to invite him in and chatter his ear off all afternoon. He begins to run across the road, hoping to avoid any more boring conversation with adults, and is relieved to spot a group of his friends climbing a mango tree. He picks up his pace, grinning and calling out their names.
“Arnav!” He yells. “Rishi! Navi!”
Rishi, who is in the process of scraping his way up the tree trunk, turns his head and immediately loses his footing. The other boys laugh at him as he tumbles down a couple of feet onto the ground, Rami joining in.
“Hey!” Rishi cries from the floor, checking his arm for any cuts. “That’s not funny.”
He stands up, frowning only for a moment. “Look, Rami,” he says, unable to stay mad for long, and points into the branches. Sunlight speckles through the leaves, his dirt-streaked skin painted by mottled shadows. Rami follows his finger and sees two big, fully ripened yellow mangoes swinging off the branches. He feels his expression change, his mouth immediately watering.
“We’ve been trying to get to the top branch,” Navi says. Rami notices the considerable gap between the branch that holds the mangoes and the one below it, the distance too wide to reach even on tiptoe. “Even Arnav can’t reach it.”
“Let me try,” Rami says.
Arnav crosses his arms, looking down on Rami. Arnav is two years older and several inches taller than the rest of them. He was one of the older boys that had tormented Rami about the snail, but he was never quite as courageous when he was alone.
“You can try,” he says. “But you’re too small and skinny to get even close.”
Rami puffs up his chest in defiance. “I can do it,” he says stubbornly.
The pads of his fingers skim along the rough surface of the tree, searching for something to hold onto. When he finally finds a crevice, he hoists himself up, his legs scrambling for a foothold. He holds on, tightening his grip even as the edges of the bark dig into his palm, knowing he just needs a little bit of momentum. Willing for strength, he roughly pushes onward until he reaches the first branch and, circling his hand around it, swings himself up.
Rishi and Navi cheer him on as he grins down at them. He knows that getting up that first branch is usually the hardest part, and the rest of the tree is dense enough for him to climb with ease. He makes his way up, ascending from branch to branch, ignoring the tugging of the twigs and leaves that reach out for him. He doesn’t mind the scratches and the dirt, the ants and beetles crawling along in solidarity with his movements. It makes him feel wild, interconnected with the world around him, like he could reach the tip of the tree and soar right off like a bird. Maybe if he empties his pockets, he will be light enough to fly.
He reaches the final branch, surveying the wide gap between him and the mangoes, his stomach growling. He steadies himself, reaching up on his tip toes. He knows it’s futile, because if even Arnav couldn’t reach them, how would he? He grabs at some of the leaves hanging down, trying to shake the mangoes off, but that doesn’t work either.
He looks down at his friends who are staring up expectantly, moon eyed.
“I told you,” Arnav says. “It’s useless.”
Rami tries to shake the branches again, but nothing happens. He looks around, grabbing some of the twigs around him, and throws them at the mangoes. That doesn’t work either.
He peers off into the horizon with a sigh, taking in the scenery from this height. Above him, the skies are blue, but he spots grey clouds creeping in from a distance. The meadows along the village are full of dewy, green grass that glow golden at the edges. The rice paddy farms are beginning to get flooded from the seasonal monsoon rains, and from up here, they look like vats of silver reflecting the sunlight. He marvels at the beauty of his village, until the boys begin calling his name again.
“Wait!” He calls back. “I know what to do.”
He stares at the branch above him, bracing himself. The only way to get those mangoes down is to tear them off with his hands, and the only way he can do that is to jump up from this branch. He knows none of the other boys would have attempted it for fear of falling, but it seems like the only plausible solution. He considers it for a moment, testing the sturdiness of the branch he stands on.
Without thinking about it too much, he launches himself upward. With wild desperation, he holds onto the branch above him, almost afraid he might miss it. His heart pounds, his blood racing with exhilaration. Hanging off the branch, he shifts one hand in front of the other, inching closer until he reaches the mangoes.
“I got it!” He yells out, and the boys begin screaming with cheers, shaking and punching each other in blind excitement.
He plucks the fruits off the branch carefully and tosses them below one by one. He watches as they bounce down from branch to branch as Navi runs to catch them, then excitedly scurries his way back down.
The boys are already holding onto the mangoes greedily, ready to tear them apart.
“We have to share two per person,” Arnav says, letting Navi and Rishi bite into their share.
He holds the other mango out to Rami as he drops to the ground, considering him with begrudging respect. “Good job,” he says.
Rami smiles at the praise and takes the mango, its sweet scent wafting into his nose. It’s so ripe that the skin breaks apart in his fingers almost immediately, the sticky juice dribbling down his arm.
“Enjoy it,” Arnav says, taking the other half. “My mom said kids in America don’t get to climb trees. They stay in and study all day.”
Rami makes a face of disgust. “Not me,” he says. “I’ll be able to do whatever I want in Umreeka.” He thinks about it, then adds, “I’ll probably have a butler too.”
“Not Umreeka,” Arnav says in a haughty tone. “Am-e-ri-ca.”
Rami can’t hear the difference, so he shrugs and bites into the fruit. The taste of it brings him immediate comfort, a rush of joy and warmth combined with the heat from the blinding sun.
A high-pitched yell interrupts their comraderie, and they turn to see a girl from class, Maya, running toward them with a wide smile. “Hey!” She says. “I want to play!”
“Eww!” Navi and Rishi jeer at her, hands dirty and faces streaked with mango juice. “We don’t want girls here!”
But she keeps moving closer, ignoring them, so they run away, avoiding her like she’s diseased. Rami follows along, laughing as the group of them sprint around trees and through tall grass to evade her.
She continues to follow them like it’s a game of chase.
“Go away!” Rishi calls at her over his shoulder.
“We don’t want you here!” Arnav says.
Rami turns his head, ready to fling more words at her, but falters when he sees Maya slowing down, unable to keep up with them.
“That’s not fair!” She cries out at them, her voice breaking. She puts her face in her hands, her shoulders shaking with tears.
He thinks of his younger sister then, trotting after him as he walks around the house, delighted just to be in his presence, and his smile fades. Maybe this isn’t as funny as he thinks. He glances at his friends, who continue to run ahead of him, and turns around.
“Rami, what are you doing?” he hears Rishi call out, but he is already jogging toward Maya.
She looks up from her hands as he approaches, her eyes glistening.
Rami holds out what is left of his mango, squished and mutilated in his hands.
“Here,” he says, when he is in front of her. She sniffs, accepting it with reluctance.
“That was rude,” she says, her brows lowered in challenge.
“You can still play with me,” he says. “When the boys are gone.”
This doesn’t seem to bring her much comfort. Not sure what else to do, Rami feels around in his pocket and pulls out his little sister’s drawing of a flower, holding it out to Maya curiously.
She picks at the mango, pondering the peace offering, and brings the fruit to her lips. Rami watches her, wondering what the girls in Umreeka looked like. They might have straight hair as yellow as the hay stacked near his home, but he thinks he likes Maya’s charcoal black curls better.
“No,” she says finally, taking the drawing from him. “I want to play with all of you.”
He watches the paper crinkle as she puts it in her pockets. Relieved by the alliance, he gives her a mischievous grin.
“Then you have to keep up,” he says.
She looks surprised for a moment as he turns and sprints back toward his friends. When he glances over his shoulder, he can see that she is following behind, laughing again.
The boys finally concede once they tire of running away, allowing Maya to join them when they realize that she has the energy to outrun them. They all collapse back under the tree, watching the swaying of the leaves. Lying down with his face upturned to the sky, Rami feels contently grounded by the items in his pockets. He can no longer see the blue of the sky but as he stares up into the clouds, he smiles and wonders if his friends in Umreeka will want to climb the mango trees with him too.
He doesn’t know that in a few months’ time, the deciduous greenery around him, the burbling creeks and rice paddy farms, the flooding meadows, the screaming laughter of his friends, will be replaced by the concrete of packed apartments and a burning metal slide the Americans call a playground.
He doesn’t know that in less than a year, he will be assimilating into a school toned by shades of peach and hair of wheat gold, not the chiya browns and rusty blacks he is so accustomed to now.
He doesn’t know that in three years, he will hear a pink faced boy jeering harsh words at him, leading him to lock himself in the bathroom and scrub at his arms until it’s red, wishing to scrape the color and smell right off his skin.
He doesn’t know that in ten years, he will come back to this place, his face speckled with acne and his limbs too long for his body, wading through these roads like he’s in a dream, trying not to frown when these familiarly-unfamiliar neighbors who never left home reminisce fondly on his childhood and call him “the American.”
He doesn’t know that in twenty years, he will be sitting surrounded by four gray walls, the sound of fax machines and light chatter drifting through his ears, the line of code on his monitor blurring his vision until his mind fades into the past, his fingers fidgeting with the gum wrapper in his pocket, dreaming of the leaves above him and the scrapes on his knees, closing his eyes and imagining the ripe mango giving way beneath his dirty fingers.
He doesn’t know any of this, because right now the future is a dream, and Umreeka is a utopia he knows will cure all his diseases, will make him rich, will put him on TV like the pretty people on his screen.
And right now, after screaming and playing and running through the mud with his friends, as the clouds assemble overhead and he begins to feel the chilly drizzles of monsoon season begin to prickle at his skin, what he doesn’t know won’t hurt him.
