RickshawGirl

Mitali Perkins
Illustrated by
Jamie Hogan
For Rob, with loveM. P.

For Daisy and Nirmala and precious daughters

everywhereJ. H.

Text copyright 2007 by Mitali Perkins

Illustrations copyright 2007 by Jamie Hogan
All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any
form. Charlesbridge and colophon are registered trademarks of Charlesbridge
Publishing, Inc.

Published by Charlesbridge
85 Main Street
Watertown, MA 02472
(617) 926-0329
www.charlesbridge.com

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Perkins, Mitali.
Rickshaw girl / Mitali Perkins ; illustrated by Jamie Hogan.
p. cm.
Summary: In her Bangladesh village, ten-year-old Naimi excels at painting designs
called alpanas, but to help her impoverished family financially she would have to be
a boyor disguise herself as one.
ISBN 978-1-58089-308-4 (reinforced for library use)
[1. PaintingFiction. 2. Sex roleFiction. 3. RickshawsFiction. 4. Family life
BangladeshFiction. 5. BangladeshFiction.] I. Hogan, Jamie, ill. II. Title.
PZ7.P4315Ric 2007
[Fic]dc22 2006009031

Printed in the United States of America

(hc) 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

Illustrations done in pastels on Canson paper

Display type set in Marigold and text type set in Sabon
Color separations by Chroma Graphics, Singapore
Printed and bound by Lake Book Manufacturing, Inc.
Production supervision by Brian G. Walker
Designed by Susan Mallory Sherman
Rickshaw Girl
One

NAIMA RACED THROUGH her morning chores, trying

hard to be careful. She washed the laundry in the
river, making sure she didnt break any buttons
this time. The other girls lazily sloshed clothes
around, giggling and gossiping, but today Naima
didnt stop to chat. She pumped four pails of
water at the well, just as Mother had asked, and
hauled them back one by one. She sliced egg-
plant, chili peppers, and onions in tiny, even
cubes the way Mother liked them, instead of
chopping them quickly into thick chunks the way
she usually did.
Ive already wiped four banana leaf plates,
Naima announced.

7
 Without tearing them? Mother asked, her
eyebrows rising like crows wings.
Not a rip in sight.
Mother smiled. Well done, Naima. You may
wait outside for Father.
Naima went quickly to the flat, wide stone just
outside the doorway of their hut. Most of the
homes in the village looked the same, with
smooth clay walls, thatched roofs, dirt paths, and
large stone thresholds. They only looked different
on holidays, when girls decorated their familys
paths and thresholds with painted patterns called
alpanas, just as their ancestors had done for gen-
erations. In Naimas village, on International
Mother Language Day, when the whole country
celebrated the beauty of their Bangla language,
the leaders gave a prize to the girl who painted
the best alpanas.
Humming under her breath Naima carefully
mixed up a batch of rice-powder paint. Shed
invented a new pattern of curves, lines, and
squares in her mind while doing her chores.
Before she started painting she had to wipe off

8
her last practice design. Stop and think before
you act, Mother often reminded her. But she
never needed to warn Naima to be thoughtful
when it came to painting alpanas.
 Naimas sister Rashida came home from school.
She started combing out her rag dolls hair and
watched Naima erase the stone. Youre going to
win again this year, Sister, she said.
I hope so, Naima said. We need another
box of paints.
And a new pad of paper, Rashida added.
Naima had made the prize last for months.
Shed mixed colors from the paint box to create
new ones. She and Rashida had discussed how to
use each precious piece of fresh paper. Should
Naima paint a crocodile slinking through lily
pads? Or a monkey clutching a coconut as it
swung from branch to branch? They picked the
best paintings to brighten the dark clay walls
inside their one-room hut.
The ring of a rickshaw bell made Naima look
up. Saleem, their next-door neighbor, was pulling a
passenger in his fathers rickshaw. Naima watched
his skinny legs turn the pedals as he puffed up the
hill. The cycle was attached to a brightly painted
tin cart with a leather bench and a decorated
canopy that shaded customers from the sun.

10
 Why dont you and Saleem play together any
more, Sister? Rashida asked.
Naima dabbed her brush into the paint. She
started a border of small circles that would go all
the way around the big stone rectangle. When
you get older, Mother and the aunts will tell you
not to talk to boys, too. Theyll say its not proper.
I like playing with everybody at school,
Rashida said. Girls and boys.
Youll probably stop going soon anyway,
Naima thought. Only Saleem knew how much
shed wanted to keep going to school. But Naima
knew her parents couldnt afford to pay fees for
two girls. Naima had studied for three years.
Now it was Rashidas turn.
You have to do more chores when youre
ten, she said, sighing. Saleem and I are both
too busy to play these days.
Naima didnt tell her sister about the signal she
and Saleem used when they wanted to meet.
Saleem tucked a white handkerchief into his pock-
et. Naima tied a white bow on her braid. Once
theyd finished their chores and eaten lunch in

11
 their own homes, theyd slip away to talk or play
cards together behind the leafy banana trees.
These days they only risked the signal for impor-
tant meetings.
You are getting old, Sister, Rashida said.
You probably wont be able to wear a salwar
kameez much longer. Both sisters were dressed
in cotton pants under long-sleeved tunics that
came to their knees.
Naima made a face. I know, she said. And
I cant move fast in a saree. Yards and yards of
cloth that you have to wrap around yourself!
They look pretty, but I feel as if Im wearing a big
bandage.
Mother moves fast in her saree, Rashida said.
Naima knew her sister was trying to comfort
her. I suppose I will, too, once I get used to
wearing one every day.
I think its hard to grow up, Rashida said,
holding her rag doll close.
Naima didnt answer, but sometimes she felt
the same way.

12
13
 Two

FATHER The wheels of his

WAS COMING DOWNHILL.

rickshaw stirred up a flurry of dust. He raised a

hand to greet the men who were playing cards in
the shade of a mango tree. Their rickshaws all
waited idly in the lane, and Father had to steer
through a tangle of tin and tires. He parked in
front of the hut.
Naima looked up from her alpanas to admire
Fathers gleaming new rickshaw. The tassels dan-
gling from the handlebars were still swaying. The
side panels were adorned with painted peacock
feathers, green and gold and purple, the same
color as the tassels. The bright blue of the lake

14
that was painted on the rear panel matched the
blue leather seat. White lotus flowers floated on
the lake.
It was Rashidas turn to greet Father with a pail
of river water. Father washed his face and hands,
and gave her a kiss. The marigolds need water,
too, little one. They look as thirsty as I am.
Rashida headed for the small patch of flowers
behind the hut. She leaned away from the heavy
pail to keep her balance.
Naima was glad shed pumped plenty of fresh
drinking water from the well. Father could drink
as much as he wanted inside the hut. Hed been
out since dawn, hauling people and packages
from place to place. Right after lunch he would
head out again until midnight. She wished he
could rest inside the cool clay hut. He needed to
stay out of the hot sun like everybody else. But
they had borrowed a lot of money to buy the
rickshaw. If they didnt pay it back soon, they
might lose the rickshaw. And then how would
Father earn money?

15
 Your alpanas get better every day, Daughter,
Father said, studying the design she was creating
on the threshold.
This one is not even halfway done yet,
Naima answered. Ive only just started.
Really? It looks so good already!
Im going to paint a star in the middle,
Naima told him.

16
 Father stepped over the threshold. He turned
to take one last look at the rickshaw before going
inside. Will you clean it for me, Naima? he
asked. Nobody gets it as bright as you do.
Of course, Father, Naima said. The unfin-
ished alpana on the stone called out to her, but
she jumped up and found a wet rag.
Even though she rushed through her other
chores, Naima took her time cleaning Fathers
rickshaw. Rich people sometimes paid extra
money to ride in a clean rickshaw. After scrub-
bing away most of the grime, she put the rag over
one finger, held it in place with the other hand,
and traced the outlines of the paintings. She pol-
ished the lotus flowers until they gleamed like
ivory. The blue tin lake sparkled in the midday
sunshine. Fathers rickshaw was so new that these
decorations were the original ones. Each time
Naima cleaned the rickshaw, she imagined scenes
the rickshaw painter might invent once these pan-
els faded. Maybe a waterfall cascading down the
snowy Himalayan mountains. Or a tiger, eyes
blazing, peering through a leafy jungle.

17
 Mothers worried voice drifted through the
open door: How much did you earn this morn-
ing, Husband?
Naima tried not to listen, but she couldnt help
it. She was glad Rashida was stooping over the
marigolds in the back, too far away to hear.
Not enough, Father replied.
Mothers sigh sounded like air leaking from a
tire. Naima counted to five. She braced herself for
words shed overheard before. If only one of our
girls had been a boy! Mother said.
Father gave his usual quick answer. I have
two wonderful daughters. Theyre just as good as
boys.
But you look so tired! Saleem takes his
fathers rickshaw out every afternoon so his
father can rest. Our girls cant do that for you.
Isnt Naima the best alpana painter in the vil-
lage? Father asked. Doesnt she take care of
her sister like a tiger guarding a cub? And
Rashida is the best student in school!
Yes, but alpanas cant put rice on the table.
And what use is it if Rashida is smart? We cant

18
afford her school fees next year unless we pay off
that rickshaw loan.
Rashida was coming back. Naima dunked the
rag in the half-empty pail of water her sister was
carrying. Fiercely, she scrubbed out her alpana
design until no traces of the rice powder
remained on the threshold.
What are you doing, Sister? Rashida asked.
You werent finished! That was the best one
yet!
Naima didnt answer. Mother was right. All
that a girl could do was cook, clean, wash
clothes, and decorate; she wasnt allowed to do
any work that brought in money. Painting
alpanas wouldnt help Father get rest. Or add to
their earnings. It was a waste of time.
Rash-ee-da! Na-ee-ma! Come inside! Your
father is hungry.
Saleem drove by again. This time a plump pas-
senger sat on the bench of the rickshaw. He was a
rich-looking passenger, juicy with money. Naima
scowled and followed her sister into the hut.

19