abhorrence clear by the way he walked around them, never looking directly at them, not even letting his eyes slide toward the corner they had made their own. But the open hatred of Indira and Rama and the others did not trouble me. I simply did not care what they thought. Amala and Kamala had been put in my charge. I was Mr. Welles’ gillie, eager for my duties.
After a while the wolf-girls became used to me. I was a part of their surroundings, and they accepted me as they accepted their dish of food or the lantana bushes or the gate that shut them away from the gardens.
By the second week of my gilliehood, the little one, Amala, came onto my lap. I was sitting quietly near them, and suddenly, without warning, she bounded playfully up to me and settled herself on my outstretched legs. She was very light. Carefully I patted her head, then her bare shoulder. Neither girl would yet accept the cotton shift without ripping it off, though they tolerated the loincloths, which were firmly sewed, rather than pinned or tied, into place.
Amala began to hum under her breath, a sound that was part purr and part tune. She shoved her face under my arm, sniffing and snuggling—the kind of thing I had seen her do with her sister, the most basic animal communication.
I ran my hand along her backbone. It was knobby and bumpy, full of ridges. There were scars, too, all along her back.
Suddenly she became wet and, without thinking, I shoved her off my lap. She lifted her face to mine, and though there was little expression there, she managed to look hurt and scurried back to the wall. But she was to come up to me and snuggle frequently after that. Wet or dry, she made no distinction, though I tried to teach her the difference.
Kamala, though, retained a certain aloofness, a kind of quiet dignity. She felt—I am sure of it—that she resided in that gulf between animal and human. She seemed puzzled by it, moving her head from side to side, considering. Often I would look at her as she rested, head on arm. Unlike Amala, who had moments of great playfulness mixed with long hours of sleep, Kamala was almost always alert, her eyes open and interested in everything. There were wrinkle lines on her forehead, as though she were thinking about how she was different from the dogs and different, as well, from me.
I helped her the only way I could. I would creep on hands and knees to within a foot of her and sit silently for a long, still moment until she was no longer restive. I would say my name, say hers, in a clear but gentle voice, then pat the ground.
“Mohandas,” I said, pointing to my chest.
“Kamala,” I answered myself, pointing to her, adding in a fair imitation of Mr. Welles’ voice, “Everything has a name.” Then, patting the ground beside me, I would end, “Home. Home.”
Her forehead would wrinkle again, and she would blink, but she did not speak.
It was a strange time for me. The wolf-girls and I were left alone by the other children. Except for meals, which I still took with the others, and high tea under the ansh tree, and brief chats with Rama at bedtime about insignificant things, I led a separate life. I wrote down what I saw and read it out loud to Mr. Welles each evening. If he was distressed at the slow progress the wolf-children made, he did not say, and he did not ask again about their ability to speak. He listened with a quiet concentration, smoking his pipe, his forehead as wrinkled as Kamala’s, as I read, and only once or twice commented on my grammar or corrected my sentences in a perfunctory way.
The weeks of the dry season passed quickly, but the monsoon did not start until June fourth. Then we were all forced to stay indoors much of the time, listening to the battering rain shake the orphanage roof. Our gardens turned into jungles and every night it was hard to sleep because of the sweet, cloying scent of jasmine that covered us like an unwanted blanket. On the east side of the house the acres of
After a while the wolf-girls became used to me. I was a part of their surroundings, and they accepted me as they accepted their dish of food or the lantana bushes or the gate that shut them away from the gardens.
By the second week of my gilliehood, the little one, Amala, came onto my lap. I was sitting quietly near them, and suddenly, without warning, she bounded playfully up to me and settled herself on my outstretched legs. She was very light. Carefully I patted her head, then her bare shoulder. Neither girl would yet accept the cotton shift without ripping it off, though they tolerated the loincloths, which were firmly sewed, rather than pinned or tied, into place.
Amala began to hum under her breath, a sound that was part purr and part tune. She shoved her face under my arm, sniffing and snuggling—the kind of thing I had seen her do with her sister, the most basic animal communication.
I ran my hand along her backbone. It was knobby and bumpy, full of ridges. There were scars, too, all along her back.
Suddenly she became wet and, without thinking, I shoved her off my lap. She lifted her face to mine, and though there was little expression there, she managed to look hurt and scurried back to the wall. But she was to come up to me and snuggle frequently after that. Wet or dry, she made no distinction, though I tried to teach her the difference.
Kamala, though, retained a certain aloofness, a kind of quiet dignity. She felt—I am sure of it—that she resided in that gulf between animal and human. She seemed puzzled by it, moving her head from side to side, considering. Often I would look at her as she rested, head on arm. Unlike Amala, who had moments of great playfulness mixed with long hours of sleep, Kamala was almost always alert, her eyes open and interested in everything. There were wrinkle lines on her forehead, as though she were thinking about how she was different from the dogs and different, as well, from me.
I helped her the only way I could. I would creep on hands and knees to within a foot of her and sit silently for a long, still moment until she was no longer restive. I would say my name, say hers, in a clear but gentle voice, then pat the ground.
“Mohandas,” I said, pointing to my chest.
“Kamala,” I answered myself, pointing to her, adding in a fair imitation of Mr. Welles’ voice, “Everything has a name.” Then, patting the ground beside me, I would end, “Home. Home.”
Her forehead would wrinkle again, and she would blink, but she did not speak.
It was a strange time for me. The wolf-girls and I were left alone by the other children. Except for meals, which I still took with the others, and high tea under the ansh tree, and brief chats with Rama at bedtime about insignificant things, I led a separate life. I wrote down what I saw and read it out loud to Mr. Welles each evening. If he was distressed at the slow progress the wolf-children made, he did not say, and he did not ask again about their ability to speak. He listened with a quiet concentration, smoking his pipe, his forehead as wrinkled as Kamala’s, as I read, and only once or twice commented on my grammar or corrected my sentences in a perfunctory way.
The weeks of the dry season passed quickly, but the monsoon did not start until June fourth. Then we were all forced to stay indoors much of the time, listening to the battering rain shake the orphanage roof. Our gardens turned into jungles and every night it was hard to sleep because of the sweet, cloying scent of jasmine that covered us like an unwanted blanket. On the east side of the house the acres of
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