Boys without Names (8 page)

“You don't need to show us,” I tell him.

“There are too many clothes and I like them all,” Sita declares.

“You can't have all of them,” I tell her.

She rolls her eyes. “I know that.”

I turn to Jama to thank him but before I do that he says, “I checked with the school here. It started two weeks ago and they are full, but you can start next term.” He motions me to the couch. I sit on it and sink. “Remember, the schools here don't need you, you need them. You can't be
bindaas
, carefree, and go and come as you please.
Samazne
?”

“
Ho
, Jama.” I understand and tell him so.

“Since you are new, you must take an exam so they can decide which class to put you in.”

I am impressed by how quickly Jama has bought the clothes and found out about my school. Maybe once I take my exams I will find some work to help him and Aai.

“Can we also go to school?” Naren asks.

Jama puts his index finger to his mouth. “Wait until I'm done talking with Gopal.”

I can't help but smile. To be first is like climbing up a coconut tree before anyone else, winning a running race, or finishing planting the field while the others are still working. I expect Sita and Naren to pout, but they stand and listen. Maybe they are happy with the new clothes or maybe they have become patient and are ready for school.

Jama continues, “Gopal, there are classes you should attend to prepare for the school entrance exam.” He gives me a pencil. “Do you have a notebook?”

“The one you gave me.”

“That is too small.” He snaps his fingers. “No problem. Go to my friend Chachaji's Used Paper and Cardboard Shop. Walk to the end of our lane and turn left. He is at the first corner. Tell him you're my nephew and ask him to give you blank papers. He won't charge you.”

The way Jama talks about him makes me like Chachaji without meeting him. He seems very generous. But he and I are strangers. How can I ask him for a favor? But I can't mention that to Jama. He has done so much to help me.

As I walk down Jama's street an idea skips into my brain—I can work to pay for my notebook. I feel better when I reach the shop at the end of the street. When I see the shopkeeper I realize he is the same man who told me where Jama's house was. I stand to the side while he attends to a customer. “Three kilos,” he tells the person as he finishes weighing the stack of magazines. He puts his brass balances on the side, counts the money, and gives
the money to the man.

“Your name is Gopal, right?” Chachaji says with a twinkle in his one clear eye. His other eye is clouded with cataract. I know that because my teacher Mr. Advale's eye was clouded like that before he got a cataract operation.

I'm surprised for a moment that he knows my name. Then I realize that Jama must have told him to expect me. “Yes. I'd like, I mean, do you have some blank paper?”

“Actually, you need a notebook. Let's see how we can manage that.” He rummages around. “Ah–han. These notebooks just came in. They might have some blank papers.”

He searches through the notebooks. If I want to tell him my idea, I have to do it now. “Chachaji, I'd like to help you in the shop in exchange for the papers.” There, I have said it.

“Accha?”
He gives me a one-eyed, piercing look, and a little storm brews in my stomach. Did I say anything wrong? Did I insult him?

I am not sure what the right answer is. But I have told him I am willing to work, so I nod.

“Can you keep accounts for me? Can you get rid of these pesky flies forever? Can you repair my roof?”

I can't do any of those things. My head drops. But his laughter rolls into my silence.

Chachaji puts his hand on my shoulder. “Gopal, don't be scared. I was teasing you. As you get your notebook ready you will be helping me.”

Those words make me feel like someone has handed me a piece of rock sugar. I smile and bow.

He points at the corner filled with notebooks. “Go through them to separate the covers from the pages, and stack them up neatly. The blank papers are yours.”

I climb up the three steps and sit on a low wooden stool. The shop has a different smell to it than Jama's house. It is not a foul odor, but it is stuffy and stale. In Jama's house, it is hard to breathe because of the stench. Here it is hard to breathe because it feels like there isn't enough air.

I pick up a notebook. I flip the pages, tearing out the blank ones and ripping off the front and back covers. Most of the notebooks are full. Some already have papers torn out of them. Before me, the previous owners have gone through these notebooks. But I do find a few blank pages here and there. I take those that are less than half full, too. They are perfectly useable. Sometimes a cover catches my eye and I linger on it. There's one of a boy with hair the color of red berries looking over a lake. It reminds me of me standing by the pond in my village. I go through all of them, making three piles: used paper, blank paper, and covers. When I am done, I take the stack of blank paper to Chachaji to make a notebook.

He says, “
Shabash
, wonderful work. Have you picked out the covers?”

“I'll pick them out right now,” I tell him. I look through the pile of covers once more. There are many I like. The
one with three puppies and the one with a river flowing through two steep mountains are beautiful. But I choose the one with the boy looking at the sunset on a lake. I can always color the boy's hair dusky black.

When I hand Chachaji the pile of papers and a front and back cover, he takes them from my hand, puts a rubber band around them, and puts them aside.

“When do you think I can have my notebook?”

He doesn't answer right away, but his face is soft and friendly. I wait.

“Come back in two hours.” His one eye twinkles.

As I slowly walk home, an older boy waves at me from across the street. I don't know him so I don't stop. He zigzags through the traffic and catches up to me.
“Tumhi Marathi bolta ka?”
he asks.

“Ho,”
I reply in Marathi.

“Do you know Gangadas Korae?” he asks.

“Not from here.” I answer like other people have answered us.

“Don't you live here?”

“I just moved here,” I tell him.

“From where?”

He's asking me question after question. As he talks, I notice that he has sleek black hair. Each strand seems to have its own assigned place on his head. It is kind of unnatural. Who is he? I am not sure if I should tell him anything. “My name is Jatin,” he says. “Gangadas is my uncle, and I've been looking for him for two days. If I don't
find him I will get
xhun se laafa.
” He rubs his cheeks as if someone has slapped him hard.

“Why?”

“Because my uncle has promised me a job in his factory. I need money badly.”

I'm impressed. “Your uncle has a factory?”

“Well, sort of. Um…a small one.”

“Is it around here?”

“Yes, I'm surprised you don't know.”

“I only came here yesterday. I'm sorry,” I say, and start walking.

“Thanks, anyway!” His eyes narrow. “Your name?”

“Gopal.”

On the way home I think about Jatin. He must be around fifteen or sixteen. His clothes were not bad, but he said he needed money. Maybe one of his siblings or parents is sick and he needs money for medication. He said he would get slapped if he didn't find his uncle. Maybe I will ask Jama if he knows Gangadas Korae. If I see Jatin again, I can help him find his uncle.

It is only ten in the morning, and the hissing of stoves escapes from every shack. The smell of spices wafts from the houses and spills out into the narrow street, temporarily masking the smell of open sewage. On the lane some women are washing plastic bags, some are collecting rags from a garbage pile, and a couple of men are pounding a sheet of metal. The kids are playing with balls made of rags. Men hurry along carrying lunch boxes and bags.
Everyone is on the move, doing something.

Aai is sitting in front of the stove. In the village we ate late in the afternoon. “Why are you cooking so early?”

“I made Jama's lunch before he left and am making a few more
rotis
for us.”

I watch Aai while she flattens a ball of
bajra
dough into a round
roti
with her fingertips. Her face is down, but when she lifts it up, I see so much sadness on it that my eyes tear.

“Oh, Gopal, what will we do without your baba? I, I miss him so much!”

Something soft and sad settles in my throat. I want to tell Aai that he will return soon, but how can I? I know Mumbai is big, but I can't imagine Baba not being able to find us. When we were on the footpath, Aai worried about getting here. But now that we have found Jama, she must ache for Baba like I do.

I sit by her and take her flour-dusted hand in mine. “I miss him too. He would have been excited about school and…” As soon as those words come out, I realize I have given up on his return. I choke up.

Aai squeezes my hand.

Without saying it, we both have understood it.

When the last
bajra roti
is done, Aai asks if I got the notebook.

“It'll be ready soon. I didn't take it for free. I helped Chachaji.”

She touches my cheek with her finger. “That way you
keep your
samman
, honor.”

“Aai, if I can find some work I can help Jama.”

“Don't you worry! I will do that.”

She will have to wait until Naren and Sita are in school to find work. I think of all the money Jama will need to feed us and send us to school. I wonder if I could work in Jatin's uncle's factory until my regular school starts. I have practically a whole term to earn.

“I just met someone only a few years older than me named Jatin. His uncle has a factory and he is going to work in there.” As I am talking to Aai, I think of Jatin's sleek hair. For some strange reason, it makes me uncomfortable.

Aai is watching me. “Is something bothering you? Was Jatin rude to you?”

I wash my hands to get rid of the flour. “No, actually he was friendly. But still…I didn't trust him. Maybe because he is a stranger.”

“It is different here, isn't it? Seems like there are so many people, there isn't enough trust and kindness to go around.”

I dry my hands with a napkin. “Maybe that's it.”

Aai washes her hands. “But we have found some good people, like the porter and the storekeeper.”

“Yes, without them we would still be on the footpath.”

I notice something in a corner. A television! That was the big box I saw last night, but it was covered with a
piece of cloth and I couldn't see it. I've never been this close to a television. The glass is smooth and dark like the face of a pond on a still night. I know that turning a knob will bring it to life. “Aai, do you think we can watch TV?” I ask.

“Jama said we could, but I am afraid to touch it. I don't want to break such an expensive thing. He has unplugged it because he says in a heavy storm water might seep through these walls. That can be dangerous. When he returns you can learn how to use it and watch it tomorrow.”

I finger the knobs. All I have to do is plug it in and turn the knobs one way or the other, but I don't. Aai is right. The TV is expensive and I don't want to ruin it.

“Where are Naren and Sita?” I ask.

“They have found friends here and are out with them.”

“Is it safe?” I think of all the traffic and strangers at the end of the street where Chachaji's shop is.

“They're right across the lane.”

I go to the door and look out. Naren and Sita are walking home hand in hand.

“Everyone went home for lunch. I'm hungry too,” Sita says. So we all eat rice,
roti
, and
dudhi bhaji
. Aai also has buttermilk for us, which is the best part of the meal.

When we're done eating, it is time for me to get my notebook. Outside, the sun is pelting the lane with light and heat. I look for a tree and shade, but there are none.
This is a place without trees, without birds, and without a pond.

I am sweating by the time I reach Chachaji's shop. He's fanning himself with a folded-up newspaper. There are no customers and his eyes are closed. “Chachaji?” I whisper.

Without opening his eyes he points to a notebook on the floor. All the pages I had torn off are rebound in a new notebook with the front and back covers I had selected.

I pick it up and flip the pages. Since the pages come from different notebooks, they have uneven widths and margins. Some pages are so white they hurt my eyes. Others are as soft as the rising moon, and a few are as dingy as if there is a film of dust on them. It doesn't matter. All I need are empty spaces to fill with words. And I do have a nice pencil.

“Do you like it?” Chachaji asks me. How long has he been watching me?

“I've never had this big a notebook!”

“Study hard,” he says.

I bow to him. “I will.”

Once more the clouds have started to gather. I hurry back, clutching my notebook. I don't want to drop it on the street and get it muddy. When I get home, the twins are taking a nap and so is Aai. I stare at the TV and wonder how by just flipping a switch you can see different people. Some of them live so far away that you have to cross oceans to get there.

Like stories it is magical. I am tempted to turn it on and bring the other world in.

 

Late that afternoon, the rain comes banging, clanging, and thrashing. It thunders, roars, and pelts the metal roof, as if challenging it to a fight. The roof of our home in the village was made of grass and palm fronds and it didn't allow the rain to make noise. The drops fell with a dull thud and ran down the sides. Besides, it never rained this hard in the village. I am glad Jama has unplugged the TV and we are safe.