Happy Birthday!: And Other Stories by Meghna Pant Read Free Book Online

stare out of my window, standing against its humid breath, as their voices gather around me. I hear them thank Sara for her help and this seems to go on for an eternity. There’s a bit of clapping as I imagine the cake being cut. Some of them declare they have an Internet café in their slum from which they’ll regularly email Sara. Sara says she’ll visit them again, maybe next year. They exchange emotional goodbyes and promises to keep in touch. The door shuts and there is silence. I sit on my bed, exhausted.
    There’s a knock on my door and Sara enters, carrying a slice of cake on a ceramic plate.
    â€˜I got you a piece,’ she says. ‘Try it, it’s delicious.’
    â€˜No thanks, I’m watching my weight,’ I reply, turning the pages of Vogue , pretending to read it.
    She sets the plate down on my dresser and from the corner of my eye I see her back reflected in the mirror, taut and bony. For a minute neither of us says anything.
    â€˜Payal,’ she says in a small voice. ‘I know there are many things you don’t want to talk about but I can’t leave without saying something important.’ She clears her throat and adds, ‘I want to make it clear that I didn’t come to India for The Agnis or my coursework. I came for you, hoping we could get to know each other better.’
    If I acknowledge the emotions in Sara’s words it will give our forced relationship as step-sisters validity.
    I don’t look up from the page advertising Cartier’s latest engagement rings.
    Sara stares at me for a long time, searching. Finally, she sighs and says, ‘There’s something else I want to tell you. I’ve been blogging about The Agnis, putting up photos of them, their homes, their practice ground. The blog is getting an amazing response, sometimes a hundred hits a day. My professors want me to write my thesis on this.’
    â€˜Good for your credits but how does that help these girls?’
    â€˜Well,’ she says and pauses. She steps away from the dresser and sits down on my bed. ‘Last week I bought each girl a pair of sneakers. Nice Nike ones, like yours. It was the day before their big match and they won.’
    There is no reason for me to pretend to study Vogue , so I look at Sara and ask, ‘I know they won but how did you get the money to buy the sneakers?’
    â€˜A professor from my university arranged a sponsor,’ she says, with a self-satisfied grin.
    â€˜That’s very … ummm … kind, I guess, of you. But what exactly do you have planned now that they’ve reached the National level, thanks or no thanks to your shoes? The match is in three days. How will they get to Delhi?’
    Sara runs her hand through her blonde hair, which has become a shade lighter in the sun and says, ‘I don’t know.’
    â€˜See, Sara. This is what I keep telling you not to do. Try to relate to things that you shouldn’t and leave the job half-done. By helping these slum girls you’ve sold them false hope and now you can’t follow through.’
    Sara doesn’t honour me with hurt. She looks me straight in the eye and says, ‘Payal, I may not be able to come back to India for years. But you’re here. You can help them.’
    I snort dramatically and say, ‘Sara, you’re asking me to finish the job you started?’ She doesn’t bother with a denial so I continue, ‘Why don’t you understand that things are not so easily done in India? Even if I want to help them, I can’t. My coach will find out; the women’s basketball world is very small here. I’ll get expelled from my team. Plus, believe it or not, the girls are too proud to take my help or money.’
    â€˜Is there no other way?’
    â€˜Can you think of another way?’ I press.
    Her stumped expression tells me she can’t. She admits defeat when she says, ‘I have to leave for the