Children's Literature - Suzanna E. Henshon
What is it like to train an elephant? When Hastin's sister becomes deathly ill, he boy decides to get a job training an elephant in order to help his family escape poverty. Hastin finds the small elephant, Nandita, trapped in the jungle one dayand he quickly falls in love with his grey-eared friend. As a keeper, Hastin helps feed, train, and take care of the animal so she can be part of a circus act. But the boy quickly discovers that his job is difficult in a myriad of ways. He sees Nandita mistreated and mishandled by other people who work in the circus. Soon Hastin wonders if the elephant will survive long in captivity. Should he return Nandita to her elephant family? In this moving account, a young boy comes to terms with the unethical practices of the circus while trying to reunite with his own family. Readers will enjoy this coming-of-age story; Lynne Kelly's debut novel. Reviewer: Suzanna E. Henshon, Ph.D.
Can a friendship born in mutual bondage save a boy and an elephant calf in modern India? When 10-year-old Hastin's sister Chanda contracts a fever, their mother must take a job in the city with an abusive employer to pay the doctors. In hopes of freeing her from her obligations, Hastin looks for a job for himself. He lucks into a position as an elephant keeper at a faltering circus owned by the seemingly friendly businessman Timir, who hopes to bring the enterprise back to life. The job, in a jungle far from home, turns out to be more indentured servitude than employment. After a time, it is only Hastin's love and pity for his charge, 2-year-old Nandita, that keeps him from running away on his own. With the guidance of kindly, old Burmese cook Ne Min, Hastin plots to save Nandita from Timir and his cruel elephant trainer, Sharad. Kelly's fine debut brings the jungles of India to life. She skillfully traces the development of Hastin's relationships with Nandita and Ne Min while carefully building the boy's character as he comes of age. Readers may become frustrated that Hastin passes up several opportunities to escape with his elephant friend, but the touching finale will all but make up for that. The cruelty toward both humans and animals is honestly conveyed. A heartfelt if at times emotionally trying addition to the literature promoting better treatment of our fellow animals. (afterword) (Fiction. 9-12)
From the Publisher
“…an affecting animal story and a well-paced adventure.” School Library Journal
“First novelist Kelly crafts a layered, convincing tale of interspecies friendship between individuals who care for each other within the confines of enslavement.” Horn Book
“A heartfelt…addition to the literature promoting better treatment of our fellow animals.” Kirkus
“Lynne Kelly has written a story that unwraps the heart and asks it to be brave, loyal, and above all, kind. Readers of all ages will worry for Hastin as he marks the wall that records his bondage to a cruel master, but they will ultimately celebrate his jubilant triumph. This story unwrapped my own heart.” Kathi Appelt, author of the Newbery Honor and New York Times bestseller The Underneath
author of the Newbery Honor and New York Times bes Kathi Appelt
Lynne Kelly has written a story that unwraps the heart and asks it to be brave, loyal, and above all, kind. Readers of all ages will worry for Hastin as he marks the wall that records his bondage to a cruel master, but they will ultimately celebrate his jubilant triumph. This story unwrapped my own heart.
School Library Journal
Gr 4–6—Ten-year-old Hastin lives in rural India in a thatched-roof mud hut with his widowed mother, Parvati, and younger sister, Chanda. When Chanda falls ill and is hospitalized in the city, Parvati must borrow money to pay for the expenses, and young Hastin determines to repay that loan by securing work as an elephant caretaker. His new employer, Timir, is a mean-tempered taskmaster who transports the boy to a distant jungle and orders him to catch an elephant for his future circus. While Hastin hates the idea of trapping one, he becomes more troubled once Nandita, the chained animal, is brought to the circus grounds. In spite of his loving care of her, the trainer stabs her with a sharp hook to teach her tricks. The one person Hastin trusts is Ne Min, Timir's Burmese cook, who befriends him and seems to have much knowledge of the ways of elephants. He supports Hastin with food, medicine, and sage advice on caring for Nandita. When Timir justly suspects the boy of trying to run away, he penalizes him by lengthening his term of employment. Then Nadita is put in leg shackles, making hope of escape more remote, but Hastin soon proves he is brave enough to defend his own freedom and that of his beloved elephant. With a well-knit plot, vivid setting, and tightening web of suspense, this novel is both an affecting animal story and a well-paced adventure.—Susan W. Hunter, Riverside Middle School, Springfield, VT
Read an Excerpt
An entire herd of elephants will care for a member that falls ill.
—From Care of Jungle Elephants by Tin San Bo
The flood left, but the fever stayed.
I sit on the floor of our hut and hold a cold washcloth to Chanda’s forehead. My mother boils another pot of basil tea on our village’s clay stove in the courtyard. Voices of our neighbors gathered around her flow through the open door of our home.
“Here—papaya juice with honey.”
“Have you tried raisins with ginger? Boil them together and have her drink the liquid.”
“Take these onions, Parvati. When my son had a fever, I made him onion broth.”
September marked the end of monsoon season, but an October rain flooded the river near our village last week. We all worried about the humming of mosquitoes that followed the water. Sometimes mosquitoes carry fever.
Sometimes the fever is stronger than a cold washcloth and basil tea and onions.
One of the fever-mosquitoes must have bitten my little sister, because she’s been sick for five days. She is too tired to get up from her blanket. She does not want to eat or drink, not even fresh milk mixed with sugar.
Our mother enters the hut, holding a tea glass and a wooden bowl. She sets the tea glass next to me and kneels on the other side of Chanda.
“Neera made you papaya juice with honey. This will help you feel better.”
She puts one hand behind Chanda’s head and brings the bowl to her lips. Carefully she pours some papaya juice into Chanda’s mouth.
“My head hurts, Amma.”
“One more sip.” She gives her another taste, then sets the bowl down and lowers Chanda’s head to the blanket.
“Should we take her to a doctor, Amma?” I whisper.
She does not answer.
“I know we have no money, but…” Ever since Baba died last year, I feel like my family is sliding down a hill of sand, clawing and grabbing for anything to hang on to.
“She will get better, Hastin,” Amma says, but her eyes do not leave Chanda’s face. “The fever will break with the next glass of tea, or with another good night’s sleep. And everyone is praying she will get well,” she adds.
They pray she will get well but speak like she will not.
I don’t tell Amma about the neighbor who whispered to her husband last night as they left our hut. “How sad for Parvati,” she had said. “First her husband, and now to lose her little girl…” The man quieted his wife after he glanced back at me.
“Keep giving her the juice and the tea. While I’m making dinner I’ll boil some onions for broth.” Amma touches Chanda’s face and forces a smile. “She is getting better, don’t you think?”
No, I don’t. I want to grab Amma’s shoulders and shake her and yell, Can’t you see she’s getting worse? Do something! Make her better! But she has some hope left and I don’t want to take it away.
She stands and hurries back to the courtyard.
Next to me, a fire burns in a mud-plastered bucket. A metal grill lies across the top of it. I set the tea glass on the grill so the fire will keep it warm. Once again, I dip the washcloth into a bowl of cold water, then place it across Chanda’s forehead. Her chest moves up and down as she sleeps.
My stomach growls when I smell the roti dough baking in the clay oven outside.
I hope we will eat dinner soon—the flatbread tastes best when I pour the buttermilk on while it is still hot. Maybe we will even have beans tonight.
The sun dips lower in the sky, and the hut grows dark. Too early to light the lamp, though. From the wooden trunk that holds my belongings, I grab the ball Amma made me from fabric scraps and take it outside. Amma sits in front of the courtyard stove, covering her face with the end of her sari as gray smoke billows toward her.
Raj runs to me with his tail wagging. Chanda and I found him one day, drinking from the puddle around the water pump. He was so thin we could see his ribs beneath his sand-colored fur.
Amma wouldn’t let us keep him. “We don’t need one more mouth to feed!” she’d said when we asked her. But Raj doesn’t have anyone else. When Amma isn’t watching, Chanda and I bring him some of our dinner or a cup of milk. We shrug and try to look puzzled when she asks, “Why is that dog always following you around?”
Amma saw me petting Raj last week after I gave him a bite of roti. “The dog is getting fatter since you found him,” she said, but I think she smiled a little.
From the doorway I throw the ball over and over again as far as I can, and Raj chases it and brings it back to me. He could play this game all day long.
I let the ball drop to the ground and turn toward Chanda’s voice. I rush into the house and kneel next to her, then brush back the wet strands of hair matted against her face. Raj follows me into the hut and nudges me with the ball before setting it down next to me.
“Chanda, are you feeling better?” Raj licks her face as I take the tea glass from the grill of the bucket fire. “Here, have some more tea.”
She pushes the glass away.
“Do you want to rest in your playhouse?” I ask her. Chanda’s always asking me to set up her playhouse for her. It’s her favorite place to play with her doll or listen to stories I tell her.
She doesn’t answer, but I grab two wooden trunks anyway and drag them across the floor. Then I set one near her head and one at her feet. From Amma’s trunk I grab a purple sari, Chanda’s favorite color, and drape it across the trunks to make a ceiling. The lamp I light shines through the fabric and makes a sunset on the wall.
Now and then I place a hand behind Chanda’s head to help her take a drink. Finally she tilts the tea glass against her mouth for the last sip, then hands me the empty glass. I lean over to kiss her forehead. Still warm, but maybe not as burning hot as before. I run to the courtyard to tell Amma.
Just as I start to fall asleep that night I dream that Baba is playing catch with me and Raj. But then Chanda’s voice pulls me away.
“Hastin, it’s too hot.”
I open my eyes and turn toward Chanda, where she lies on her blanket.
“I’m awake, what is it?” I ask. After Baba died, Chanda started having nightmares. When that happens I hold her hand until she falls asleep again. “Did you have a bad dream?”
“I’m burning up.”
I crawl to her and touch her forehead, then hurry over to my mother.
“Amma, wake up!”
“What is it, Hastin? I am so tired,” she says.
Amma sits up and flings off her blanket.
“What’s wrong?” She races to Chanda and puts her hand on her cheek before I can answer. “Her fever is worse than before!” Amma lights a lamp from a nearby shelf. The lamplight reveals spots of red covering Chanda’s face and hands. Oh, please, no …
We have seen others break out in red spots after a bite from a fever-mosquito. If they get to the doctor in time, sometimes they get well and come back. Sometimes.
“What can we do, Amma?” I ask.
She picks up Chanda, limp like a doll in her arms. “I will take her to Amar’s and ask him for a ride to the hospital.”
“I want to go with you.”
“No, stay here and take care of things. I’ll be back as soon as I can.” She carries Chanda across the courtyard to our neighbor Amar’s house. He owns a rickshaw, so he can get them to the hospital in the city faster than anyone else.
“Amma, will she be all right?” I wait for her to give me some hope to cling to, to tell me again, She will get better.
She stops and turns to me. “I don’t know, Hastin. All we can do is pray.”
Text copyright © 2012 by Lynne Kelly