Boys without Names (19 page)

 

One day I steal a piece of newspaper and stuff it in my pocket while I help Scar wrap the frames I made. When I get a chance I also take out the pencil from my raincoat and slip it in my pocket. There is only one place where I can write a message—in the bathroom. I wait until lunch when I am allowed to use the bathroom. I take out the paper and pencil and begin writing. It is hard to do because I don't have anything solid to rest the paper on. I manage to scribble a note in very bad handwriting. “We are children trapped in the building next to the
nimba
tree. Help us get free.”

I finish my food quickly so I can be the first to get back up. Roshan follows me so I don't have to worry. Still, I don't want anyone to know about my note, so when I get up, I casually reach out to the
nimba
branch with my fist, open it up, and let go of the paper. It floats away. I just hope Scar doesn't see it. Will the wind carry the paper away until someone grabs it? Will it get away from here and close to other buildings, where people are? And if it does, there is so much junk on the city streets that I wonder if anyone will even notice it. Maybe this was not the best idea. Still, my heart flutters with hope that someone may see it, read it, and help us.

In the afternoon I look out the window. The paper
never made it down but is stuck on a branch. I pray for a strong wind to set it sailing. I hide my pencil back in my raincoat before going to bed.

The next morning the paper has disappeared.

For the next two days I wait for someone to come help us but no one does. Like one of my air palaces it was a foolish idea.

 

My only way out is if Scar sends me out on an errand.

If he does I should have only one aim: to get out of here and not worry about anything else or anyone else. The errand money Scar gives me will probably be enough to hop on a bus or a train and get away from here. I know where Jama lives, so it shouldn't be difficult to ask for the directions and find Jama's house. Aai, Naren, Sita, and Jama will be so happy to see me alive. If Baba is back, I can see him too.

The day I step out of this place, I will see my family.

W
ith each passing day the air turns lighter and the sky looks clearer. Slowly, my back has healed. Amar's hugs have brightened my days. Roshan's leaf-paste has kept the infection away. Barish has lent me his shirt to sleep on. Sahil lets me sleep extra in the morning by filling my bead tray. And GC has brought me turmeric water every single day. Without them what would I have done?

Still, I don't trust GC. He has been quiet and avoids looking at me. But I know he is watching me. I am still afraid of what he can do to me, to all of us.

Scar has not asked me to run an errand but even if he does, I wonder if I will be able to walk out of here, catch a bus, and escape alone. In the last few days all the boys have acted like good friends. They have done so
much for me! If I run away, Scar will beat them up. And I know how much it hurts. I hear the
satak, satak
of the rubber tube as if it is coming down on their backs. Scar will scatter them, maybe send them to do dangerous work. I can't let that happen to Amar, Sahil, Roshan, Barish—even to GC.

Is there a chance of getting all of us out when I am not sure about GC? But the way he has taken care of me makes me think that I must not count him as my enemy. My thoughts are like a tangled-up piece of string.

 

After many days of sun, we have a cloudy morning. Sahil's hair is curlier in the heavy air. It starts to sprinkle, and Scar is wet when he comes in. “This change in weather makes me miserable. I thought we were done with monsoon! It is rainy and damp again.”

When I tell Scar my order is done ahead of time, he brightens up. “Make some tea for us, Gopal.”

This is the first time after beating me that he has asked me to make tea for him. He examines each frame before he wraps it up in newspapers. “These are good. Really good. Have a full cup of tea with me.”

I don't feel like celebrating with him by having more tea, but it is better to follow Scar's order than not. I add more milk and water and watch it come to a boil.

“How much is fifty-two times forty-four?” Scar asks.

I throw the tea in the boiling mixture while I calculate. Fifty-two times 44 is hard, so I break it up in my
head. Fifty-two times 40 is 2,080, and 52 times 4 is 208. I add 2,080 and 208 and tell him, “That is two thousand, two hundred eighty-eight.”

He smiles as he pulls out a silver pen, writes down the number on a scrap of newspaper, and tucks it into his pocket. Is he making that much money? He must be or else he wouldn't have replaced his lost pencil with such a nice pen.

 

Even with a stretch of overcast, drizzly days, Scar is in a good mood. Maybe it is because of the new frames I am making or because Diwali festival season is here. On the TV there are advertisements for sweets, saris, and jewelry. We don't get to watch the TV, but when Scar has it on, the sounds drift upstairs.

Two days before
Diwali
, on
Dhanteras
, Scar gets sick. His eyes are bloodshot, his face is flushed, and his temples shine with perspiration.

“Gopal.” He claps weakly.

When I come down he points to the kitchen. “Make me a cup of tea,” he croaks.

“Yes.”

“It is an auspicious day, I must have sweets,” he mumbles as I go to the stove to heat the water. All this time he gives us just enough food so we don't starve, and now he moans about needing sweets! He needs medicine more than anything else, but why should I tell him that? I'm not stupid enough to prick myself by hugging a thorny acacia
tree. Let him have sweets if he wants sweets.

“Make sure you add enough milk so it doesn't taste watery.”

Like ours?
I think.

“And make a little extra so you can have a sip or two.”

The master is so generous!

When I set his stainless-steel cup down, he grabs my hands. “Get me some sweets. It is Dhanteras and I must have some.” He takes out a fifty-rupee note from his pocket, enough to buy a small box of mixed sweets. “Walk three streets down and take a left, then a right at the second corner. The store is three shops past the corner. Take a jute sack to carry it in so the whole world doesn't see it. Now hurry.” He wheezes back and closes his eyes.

It is hard to stop grinning. Scar has given me the money and has asked me to go to the store alone. He must be delirious with fever, otherwise he would never have done this. It is my chance to flee. I bend down and pull one of the sacks out from the pile beneath his wooden bench.

“It looks like it might rain. Should I take my raincoat?” I ask. I am thankful for the cloudy day so I have an excuse to take it.

“Yes. Get me my sweets. Hurry.”

I run up and grab my raincoat. All eyes are on me, but I avoid looking at them.

Now I have money in my pocket and I'm on the street. My heart thumps faster and faster. After I left, Scar may have asked GC to follow me. I look over my shoulder, but he is not there. A bus passes by, stops at the corner, and people get on. I don't know where it is going, but it doesn't matter. It will take me away from here.

I run down the street, cut into the line of people, grab the metal rod, and climb up.

The faces of Sahil, Amar, Roshan, Barish, and GC dance in front of me. How can I leave them behind? But this is my only chance, and if I don't escape now, I may never be able to do so.

People push me from behind and I must move forward to make room for them.

Scar will punish them. I will regret this. But if we can all escape together no one will have to suffer. I must ask someone to help us all.

I must.

I can't move forward. Someone jabs me in the ribs. I turn around and hop out.

“If you don't want to ride the bus, then stay away from it!” someone yells. I wipe my sweaty hands on my shorts, stick my hand back in the pocket to make sure the money is still there, and try to stop trembling.

The street is crowded and people are in a festive mood. Who should I ask for help? The man with the leather bag? Whom should I trust? The lady buying vegetables? If I can make eye contact with someone and
they smile, then I can talk to them.

I look at men and women passing by, but they are hurrying along. Some men and women are holding their young children's hands and others are carrying shopping bags. By now I am at the sweet shop and no one has even glanced at me.

The place is mobbed with shoppers. The shopkeeper is handing out the boxes, taking the money, giving it to the man behind the counter with the cash box, and returning the change to the customers as fast as he can. I must talk to someone, but who would listen in this noise? Maybe if I can write a note I can slip it to the shopkeeper. Maybe he is as nice as the owner of the Deepak Food Store.

I remember I have a pencil tucked in my raincoat, but I don't have a piece of paper. Then an idea comes to me. I have a fifty-rupee note on which I can write. I glance at the street to make sure GC is not there. He isn't.

Quickly, I move away a few steps, take out the pencil, and fold open the bill and rest it on the raincoat. On one side is the picture of Mahatma Gandhi. I try to write on the same side. My hands tremble so much that first I have to take a few deep breaths.
Please rescue us. We are six boys in the old building three streets down by the nimba tree with the broken branch. Please hurry.

I tuck my pencil back into my raincoat and wiggle between a man in milky-white
kurta-pajamas
and a lady wearing a red silk sari.

“Hey, you. Out. Get out.”

I look to see who is talking.

“Don't act so innocent. I know why you have sneaked close to us,” the lady in red yells at me.

“I want to buy sweets,” I say.

“Buy or steal?”

“What?” My mouth tightens up.

“Leave the child alone on this auspicious day,” the man in the white
kurta-pajamas
says in a deep, booming voice that seems to echo from the hills.

“Maybe you haven't looked at him. If I were you, I would worry about my wallet.”

My face is hot with shame and I haven't done a thing wrong.

I take a step backward.

The booming-voice man puts his hand on my shoulder and moves me in front of him.

“What do you want?” he bends down and asks.

“A box of mixed sweets.”

“One large mixed sweets,” he orders.

Before I can tell him that I don't have money for a big box, the shopkeeper gives me a box and holds out his hand for money.

I have fifty rupees and I don't think it is enough for such a large, fancy box of sweets.

“I don't have enough money—”

“See, what did I tell you? Now who's going to pay for him?” the red-sari woman snarls.

The shopkeeper looks at me. He doesn't want any bickering on Dhanteras. It is the day of Goddess Lakshmi, the goddess of wealth. She would be displeased to see a fight on her special day, and if she is displeased, she might leave. The shopkeeper wants to keep her happy.

But he also wants money for the box he handed me. My throat tingles with shame. Like an ant in a landslide, I can't scurry into a crack fast enough to save myself.

He offers a solution. “Pay what you have now, and pay me the rest later.”

What can I say? I can't ask Scar for more money.

“I…um…have enough money for a small box. Would you…um…mind…exchanging this for a small one?” I ask the shopkeeper as I hand him the money. He opens the bill and everything seems to stop for me. He pauses, his eyebrows go up, and his face becomes stiff. Then instead of handing my money to the man with the cash box he slips it into his shirt pocket.

He picks up a small box and gives it to me. “Don't worry,” he says.

I don't know what to do because he doesn't take the big one back. Of course, on this auspicious day he wouldn't take the sweets back.

Before I can say anything to the shopkeeper, the booming-voice man says, “Didn't you hear him? You don't have to pay for it. Get going.”

The woman in the red sari glares at me. Her nostrils are wide, ready to burst open.

I almost forget to thank Sweets-Man.

I turn around and say, “Thank you.”

Sweets-Man waves his hand.
“Sambhalun ja!”

The booming-voice man asks, “What's your name?”

“Gopal.”

“Happy Diwali, Gopal,” he says. “Share your sweets.”

I slip both boxes into the jute bag and take off before the lady makes any nasty remarks.

On the way home I think about Sweets-Man and how he looked at the note. He must have read it and that is why he kept it separate. Like Aai, he told me to be careful—I am sure he is going to help us. I wonder if he will call the police. If he does we could be free today, or tomorrow, or the day after—on Diwali.

“Happy Diwali, Gopal. Share your sweets. Share your sweets. Happy Diwali, Gopal.” The booming voice echoes in my mind until I realize these sweets are not for me. Scar will take away even the big box that Sweets-Man gave me. Scar won't believe I got it as a gift and will think I stole it, or worse yet, he might think I bought it with money I stole from him.

But why should I let him have the big box? It is not his. It is mine and I want to share it with all my friends—even with GC. I must think of a way to hide it from Scar.

Instead of going to the front door I check the back door, but the lock is secure. I could climb up the
nimba
tree and slide the package to one of the boys, but Scar
might hear the noise, open the window, and catch me. There is no way to save the sweets. I have to walk in through the front door and hand Scar both the boxes—unless he is asleep and doesn't notice me.

No such luck. Scar is sitting up. The tea has made him alert.

“Took you a while,” he says.

“It was crowded.”

He reaches out. “Give it to me.”

I put my raincoat down, slip my hand in the bag, and pull out the small box. I hand it to him. He fumbles to untie the red string as I hastily fold up the sack and shove it under his seat and pick up my raincoat.

He flings away the string, lifts the cover, and brings the open box closer to his face. While he admires the sweets garnished with silver paper, I kick the sack farther under the seat with my foot.

He waves his hand to dismiss me, but first he grabs a diamond-shaped sweet and gives me a sliver of it. “Go,” he says.

As I turn around, I see him pop the rest of the piece in his mouth. Scar offers me his sweet out of superstition. He probably thinks that if he shares the food with me I won't cast an evil eye on it and give him a stomachache.

There is a whole box of sweets for us to eat tonight. I just hope Scar feels well enough to go home.

And I hope he doesn't check under his bench.

 

After my errand it is hard to concentrate on gluing and beading. Doubts flood my mind like rainwater floods the streets in monsoon. I have asked Sweets-Man to help us. What if he doesn't talk to the police? What if the policemen are as mean as the one who kicked me? What if someone talks to Scar about all this? Sweat breaks out on my face and as I wipe it I notice GC staring at me.

He smirks.

“What? Why are you smirking?” I blurt out.

“You tell me,” he says.

Sahil, sitting between us, has stopped rocking.

GC suspects something, and if he tells that to Scar, I am doomed. We all are.

 

I wonder if GC will ask me questions tonight. I hope that when I share the sweets he will think that was my secret.

The idea of sharing sweets brings a smile to my face but it doesn't last long, because I again think about our rescue. I wonder if Sweets-Man has contacted the police by now. The way he looked at me I know he would. But this is a busy time for his business, so he may not do anything right away. And what if after a couple of days he misplaces the note, or uses the money by mistake?