Boys without Names (6 page)

One of the streets behind the station has a small hill at the end covered with rubbish. On the other side of it is a bridge and some people are standing under it. I squint, but it is hard to see with the sun in my eyes. I climb down the path people have worn into the hill.

Under the bridge, the dried-out creek bed is strewn with plastic bags, empty cigarette boxes, newspapers, and chunks of broken bricks. The scrubby grass is brown and matted. Still, it is cooler under the bridge, and there are only two couples here.

The men are sitting and the women are cooking in one corner. “You live here?” I ask the men.

One of them looks up. He is bigger than Baba, with
hairy arms and large hands. “Yes. Why do you ask?”

“My baba has gone out and will return soon. My aai, brother, sister, and I need a place to rest. Can we stay here?”

He smiles. “You speak
pakka
, real village Marathi. I like that.” Then he tells me they arrived last week and have been living under the bridge.

He hasn't answered my question. “Can I bring my family here?”

“Hamare baap ka bridge thodi hai? Aaa jao,”
the other man says in Hindi.

Even though he makes fun of me by asking, “Does the bridge belong to our fathers?” I like him. The way he invites us,
Aaa jao,
“come on,” feels good.

“Does anyone bother you here?” I want to make sure the policeman doesn't come here.

“Besides you, so far no one else has bothered us.” The first man laughs.

I tell them Aai and the twins are waiting with our luggage near the station, and they both offer to come with me.

When Aai sees me with the two strangers her
bindi
wrinkles in worries. The men stand a few feet away to let me speak to Aai. “There is a place under the bridge where we can sleep. It is not crowded at all and it is out of the way, so the policeman won't bother us. There are two women there too.”

“We don't know these men. At least on the street we
were surrounded by people, it was safer.”

“No, it wasn't. Remember I got kicked?”

“Yes, but who knows where these men are from and why they are after us?”

“Aai, they are not after us. They came to help us with the luggage.”

From the way she looks at the men I think they will turn around and leave, but one of them says,
“Namashkar bahin,
we are from the village outside of Pune. We're new to the city too.”

Aai's face loses its tension when she hears the man talk like he is from our village.
“Namashkar,”
she greets them back.
“Chala,”
she says as she grabs Naren's and Sita's hands. The men pick up a jute sack each and I carry the cotton bag.

 

Once we get under the bridge Aai talks to the women while I arrange a few larger pieces of brick to make a stove. Naren and Sita gather dried twigs and brush nearby and come back with enough to start a fire. “What are you doing?” Aai asks.

I stuff the twigs between the bricks. “We made you a stove, Aai. You can cook the
dal
and rice that kind man gave us yesterday.”

Aai shakes her head. “It won't work. Those ladies told me that these twigs burn up too quickly and that the fire doesn't last. All we will have is heavy smoke and scratchy throats.”

“Then what are we supposed to do?” I ask. The
pav-bhaji
we shared earlier would have been enough for the day if I were a rabbit or a squirrel, but my stomach still has a hunger hole in it.

“The women said we could use their kerosene stove.”

While Aai cooks, one of the men tells me, “We found a job in the factory, so we will be leaving tomorrow.”

“Where is the factory? Do they have more jobs?” I ask, wanting to know.

The man is quiet for a moment. “They need more people, but they only want men who can lift heavy loads. You're too young, and I assume your baba is too old.” He continues, “I heard there was rain in the south, which means it will arrive here in a day or two. This is a low area and the water collects very fast. After tonight it won't be safe to sleep here.”

Aai overhears and says, “Tomorrow night we will be with my brother.”

B
y the time I wake up in the morning our neighbors are gone and have taken all their things.

Aai goes up to the station to look for Baba. I wait under the bridge with Naren and Sita. “What if Aai doesn't find Baba?” Sita asks.

“Then Baba will find her,” Naren says.

Sita looks at me. “Do you think so, Gopal?”

I don't know what I think. All I know is I want them to be quiet. “How would you like to hear about a giant who lived in a cave?”

“No, no,” Sita says. “That giant lived under a bridge. Just like this one.”

“Why would he do that?”

“Because he is the one holding the bridge up. Don't you know?”

“You're right,” I say. “But I have a problem with the story. The giant can't move because he's holding the bridge.”

“It is a moving bridge,” Naren says.

“Yes, moving bridge, moving water, moving world. Everything moving. Round and round.”

The twins hold hands and spin.

And that is when we hear the roar. It is a low groan, like the growl of a baby giant's belly, except it comes from the sky. Naren and Sita stop and point upward. “Come rain come, come rain come.” The second rumble is deeper, louder, and longer, like the growl of a baba giant's belly. Naren and Sita run to me. In the distance I see Aai, with flailing arms, coming down the slope.

“The rain! It will be here. Hurry, we must leave this place,” she says as she grabs the cotton bag.

Another rumble. It feels closer. The wind picks up and Aai's sari flutters wildly.

Aai hands Naren and Sita the cloth bag. “Hold one strap each and start walking.” She takes the heavy jute one with pots and pans, and I take the one with the bedding. Going uphill is harder with our things, but we manage—until the rain pours down. I'd never seen such a moving wall of water in our village. We are soaking wet by the time we get under the overhang of the station.

Even though it is warm I shiver in my wet clothes. Aai takes her faded sari from the bag, wrings it out, and opens it up. “As soon as my sari dries out you can wipe
yourselves with it,” she says.

Aai's sari is so old that it is onionskin thin and will dry out in no time.

The rain falls and falls and falls. Soon there are puddles everywhere. Out of nowhere the sidewalk in front of the station is covered with people carrying mostly black umbrellas. There are fewer people and fewer vendors, and the footpaths look wide. The handful of vendors that remain there have moved closer to the stores so that the overhangs of the roofs above can protect them. The girls selling buttons and magazines are gone.

I can't believe it is the same crowded, hazy, burning-hot place of yesterday. A car drives by a little too fast and splashes the people on the footpaths. Naren and Sita laugh out loud. In front of us, a woman gets out of a taxi. She tries to open her umbrella, but it is stuck. The twins cover their mouths with their hands to muffle their giggles.

Aai passes around her dried-out sari and we wipe the rain from our skin. No one mentions Baba—not even Naren and Sita—but I know Aai and I are both deeply worried now. If Baba had found Jama they would have been back. That means Baba got lost and never found Jama's house, and now maybe he is out of money and can't take a bus or a train from wherever he is.

After about two hours, the rain stops and the forest of umbrellas vanishes. The rain-washed air is cleaner, but it doesn't carry the fragrant, earthy scent of our village. All the water can't make the footpaths, the blacktop roads, or
the auto fumes smell clean. I tell Aai, “I want to circle the station and look for Baba.”

“Can we come?” Naren asks.

“You both stay with me.” Then Aai tells me, “Don't go down to the bridge. Just look from the top.”

“Yes.”

“On your way back get puffed rice. Don't spend too much.” She hands me some money and an empty plastic bag from the Deepak Food Store.

I hurry toward the bridge. The place where we were sleeping is underwater, completely. What if the rain had come at night? Would we have vanished along with the plastic bags, cigarette cartons, and newspapers?

Again I hear a faint rumble, a warning of more rain on the way. Time to return. On my way back, I buy paper packages of puffed rice and roasted lentils.

Back at the station Aai unwraps the packages and folds up the bag. She empties the lentils and puffed rice into a pan, cuts one of the onions we brought from home into tiny pieces, adds the pieces to the mixture, and sprinkles red pepper on top. Flavored with onion and red pepper, it is delicious. I wish there were four times as much because the handful I eat only fills a little hole in my stomach.

The sun that was out for a few minutes is swallowed by clouds bringing the second slapping of rain. Water pounds and floods the street. Aai and I look at each other. If Baba doesn't return, where will we sleep tonight? We're careful not to spill out the thought and scare the twins.

Naren and Sita are sitting quietly watching the rain, people, umbrellas, cows, rickshaws, and puddles. In the beginning, their eyes were sparkling with curiosity. They laughed when someone splashed into a puddle or a car sprayed water on a pedestrian. But now their faces are drained. They watch.

Simply watch.

“Baba has been gone for a day,” I whisper to Aai.

She squeezes my hand. “I hope he comes soon.”

I am afraid. More than I have ever been.

The rain still pounds. Aai tells me to wait with the twins while she goes looking for Baba. We're sitting right in front of the station so why does she have to go look for him? Maybe she wants to see the water under the bridge. “Don't go far,” I beg her.

“I won't,” she promises.

A minute after she leaves, Sita asks, “When will Aai come back?”

“Soon,” I reply.

A few minutes later, Naren asks, “Is it soon already?”

I don't answer.

My eyes are fixed in the direction Aai went and I am praying silently. I want her to be back just as much as Sita and Naren.

When Aai returns she is soaked. “The water is this deep on the next street,” she says, holding her hand midcalf.

I close my eyes, listening to the footsteps. Every time I hear someone nearby, I look up.
Please, Lord Ganesh, let it be Baba and Jama.
As fast as it came, the rain moves away and the sun returns. A few of the stores open up. But it is quieter.

“I almost didn't come,” one of the vegetable sellers says to a customer. He is weighing cabbage. My mouth waters.

“I don't blame you. It is too early in the season to have such a storm. We're not prepared for it.” The lady opens her purse and pays him.

“The monsoon strikes on its own whim.”

“So it does,” the lady says.

The shopkeepers and vendors talk about how these kinds of storms can bring flash floods and death. Their talks gather and crowd my mind. Naren and Sita are quiet and don't laugh, talk, or fight. They have not asked when Baba will be back. They know Aai and I don't have an answer.

I shiver, wondering if Baba is caught in the rain.

 

It is past eleven in the morning, but the streets are still quiet, and many stores have remained closed. I think it is because of the rain until I realize it is Sunday! If we had made it to Jama's house, he might have taken us around Mumbai this evening in one of the buses. Instead, for the last two days we have been sitting on a footpath. We only have a little money left and if Baba doesn't return tonight
we will be in big trouble.

“Aai, we must find Jama quickly. I know which bus goes to Dadar and from there we can find his house.”

“What if your Baba comes back?”

“If Baba doesn't find us here, I am sure he will come to Jama's.”

Aai is quiet.

“It will be easy to travel today because it is a Sunday and the buses have plenty of room. And look at the sunshine! We better move before the rain returns. Besides, we can't sleep another night on the street.”

“Jama probably will be home today,” Aai mumbles.

“Yes. And if we get there by this afternoon we can look for Baba. Aai, do you have more money tucked away in your cotton bag?”

She sighs. “I wish I did. This is what I have.” Aai takes out a couple of crumpled notes and some change.

Without money my plans are as good as a lump of soil without seeds. I chew my lip. If only we could earn enough for the fare. But how?

Just then I see a lady getting out of a taxi at the end of the street. “I'm going to carry that woman's luggage,” I tell Aai, and hurry off before she can stop me. By the time the driver lugs the woman's bag from the taxi, I am there.

She glowers at me. “I don't have money for a beggar.”

My first thought is to run away, but I think of the
money we need. “I'll carry your suitcase.”

She measures me while paying the driver. “I'll give you five rupees.” I know that is a lot less than I should get, but still, it is better than nothing. The driver helps me put the heavy bag on my head and I walk behind the lady all the way to the gate. Loud music starts playing and the lady fishes out a phone from her purse, but keeps on walking. She presses a green button and says, “Hello?”

She listens and then says,
“Accha,”
and presses the red button. It would be so wonderful if Baba had one of those phones and so did we. Then we would know where he is.

As I am about to enter the station, one of the porters stops me. “You can't go inside without a badge,” he says, showing an oval brass badge on the sleeve of his maroon uniform with the number 581 engraved on it.

“But I am with the lady.”

“Yes, but when you come out you'll need a ticket, son.”

He's right. I hadn't thought about that.

“Hurry, I will miss the train!” the lady shouts.

“The boy can't go in. I'll carry your bag,” the porter says to her.

The lady gives me a look as if I have failed her. She looks at the porter, then at the waiting train. “How much?”

“Twenty rupees.”

“What? The boy was going to do it for five. That's what I'll give you.”

“No,” he says.

She looks at her watch. “
Accha
, let's go.”

“You haven't paid the boy,” the porter reminds her.

“I'm not going to.” She marches off without glancing at me.

I stand there as dumb as a goat. I'm the biggest fool, because I carried the luggage more than halfway and I ended up with a big round zero. I trudge back. This city is tricky. I wonder what Birbal would do to survive here.

I am mad at myself. Why did I rush to carry the luggage? Aai is right when she says I need to think things through.

From the corner of my eye I see the porter that carried the bag for the lady. He is waving at someone. He seemed nice. Maybe he can help me find work. The porter waves again and I realize he is calling me. I run to him. “What?” I ask.

“Here.” he holds out a twenty-rupee note.

“But you didn't take—”

“The woman's compartment was right in front of this gate,” he says, pointing at the station. “You carried the bag most of the way, so you deserve it. But don't do it again, because if you don't have a badge, you're not allowed to carry luggage. If the police catch you, they will fine you.”

The image of the policeman marches into my mind. I didn't know I could get in trouble trying to work.

 

I run back to Aai. Naren and Sita are playing cards quietly. “I think we might have enough money for one full and three half tickets,” I whisper as I slip Aai the money. I don't feel like a stupid wandering goat anymore.

“Then we must leave,” Aai says.

“Where are we going?” Sita asks.

“To Jama's home.”

Sita pounds her fist on the ground. “No.”

“Why not?” Aai asks.

“Because when Baba comes he won't be able to find us.”

Aai takes her hand. “Sita, he has gone to Jama's house and that is where we are going. We will see him there.”

“What if he doesn't find Jama and comes back here?”

My gaze settles on the Deepak Food Store. “I'll tell the man in that store that we're leaving. Baba knows him, so when he returns the storekeeper can tell him where we went. Is that a good idea, Sita?”

Sita nods. “Yes.”

Naren and Sita gather the cards. I slide the deck back in the box, put it in the bag, and take out my notebook. Part of it got wet and the pages are curled up at that end. I smooth them out as much as I can. I take out the slip of paper with Jama's address and put it in my pocket. On the way to the bus we stop at Deepak Food and leave the word with the kind shop owner.

When we cross the street Naren and Sita cling to me
like the baby monkeys cling to their mothers in Matheran. I don't blame them. The people and traffic are a lot lighter today, but compared to the dirt lane of our village, this is as wild as the tourist-filled main street of Matheran. And there are no cars, buses, or motorcycles in Matheran.

At the bus stop there are three people in the line. They stare at the stuff we are carrying and probably the way we look, but no one says anything. My heart thumps loudly as we stand behind them. I hope this is the right thing to do. What if we get lost? What will we do? How will we eat?

By the time the bus comes there are several more people in line behind us. Aai pays the conductor and he gives us the tickets. Sita and Aai settle in the seat right behind the driver, and Naren and I sit in the seat across from them. The windows are behind us, but there is a wider space between our seats, so we can put the sacks down by our feet and still have room left for other passengers to walk past.

I look out the window one last time to see if Baba has returned. I don't see him. The bus moves down the road quickly. I hope we get to Jama's house soon and find Baba there.