The Bridge Home

by Padma Venkatraman

  25

  CANDLES IN THE DARK

  Arul didn’t lead us straight back to the graveyard. He took us down a street we hadn’t seen before.

  “There’s a church right by here,” Arul said. “Let’s go there and buy a candle to give thanks to God.”

  “Thanks?” Muthu stared at him. “For what?”

  I couldn’t believe my ears either. “You’re thanking God the waste man took away everything we had?”

  “The waste man didn’t take away everything we had,” Arul said. He threaded my free hand through one of his and reached out for you with his other hand.

  “See?” Arul said. And I saw.

  We stood in a circle, linked together like an unbreakable necklace.

  * * *

  • • •

  “No dogs allowed,” Arul said when we arrived at the church. “Can you get him to stay here and wait for us, Rukku?”

  “Wait.” You patted his head. “Wait.”

  “We’ll be right back, Kutti,” I said. “Look after our stuff.”

  “Because surely our stuff is so precious, anyone who sees it would want to steal it,” Muthu joked as we laid down the bundle of things we’d salvaged from the bridge.

  As Arul shut the church door behind us, Kutti whined softly, but you didn’t seem to hear him. You and I had only seen churches from the outside. Inside, the church was dark and quiet. Faint streams of light danced in through rainbow-colored windows. Straight ahead, instead of a stone image of a God or Goddess, hung a wooden cross with a carved figure of Yesu, bleeding, with thorns wound around his head.

  “Owwa!” you whispered. “Owwa!”

  “It’s just a statue, Rukku,” I whispered back. “It’s not alive.”

  “It’s God,” Arul said in a reverent tone. Then he led us to a place where rows of candles were flickering. He dropped a coin into a box and lit a candle.

  “We thank Yesu and Mary Amma,” he explained, “by lighting candles. And we pray they’ll keep us safe.”

  “Isn’t it enough if we just pray?” I said. “Must we actually burn our money?”

  Muthu chuckled.

  Arul placed his candle beside the others. You watched as intently as when you made your bead necklaces.

  Then he held a candle out to you.

  “Careful, Rukku. That flame can give you an owwa,” I said. Even though I knew how good you were with your hands, I couldn’t help warning you. After all, you’d never held a burning candle before. Worrying about your safety was a habit I couldn’t cure, and I hoped I didn’t sound bossy. “Wax drips, and it’s hot.”

  Arul placed his hands over yours, so you were holding the candle together. I watched you set it in place.

  “Again?” you said.

  Muthu and I flopped down on a smooth wooden bench and watched as Arul let you buy and light one more candle. And then another.

  Your hand trembled slightly, but your gaze was steady with concentration, your tongue between your teeth.

  “Enough?” I suggested, but you ignored me.

  “She’s hearing the voice of God,” Arul whispered.

  “Too bad she can’t hear my voice, telling her to stop spending all our money on candles,” I whispered to Muthu. “Soon we won’t have any money left.”

  But you were so in awe that I decided not to argue.

  You seemed to melt right into that moment, kneeling before the candles, your eyes fixed on the moving flames.

  And they were so beautiful, those little flames, dancing in that still, silent church, dancing like they could hear music. Like they were alive. Alive the way you were alive, alive right there, right then, not worried about what might happen in a few hours or days, not remembering what had happened before.

  I heard a sudden snap, the sound breaking my—but not your—reverie. A kind-looking woman who must have been watching us the whole time had snapped open her handbag and started riffling through it. Our eyes met.

  “We’re not beggars.” I assumed she was looking to give us some change.

  “It’s not money.” She held out a small rectangular card. “Can you read?”

  “Of course.” I snatched the card out of her hands and read it aloud, to prove I wasn’t lying. “Dr. Celina Pinto. Director, Safe Home for Working Children.” Below that was an address—a number and the name of a street that sounded familiar. A street I remembered in the nicer part of town.

  “I’m Celina Aunty,” she said. “I run a home for children and help place them in schools or learn a trade.”

  “School!” My excited shout echoed through the church. At last I’d found a person who could fulfill my dreams.

  “We don’t need free stuff,” Arul grunted. “We work.”

  “Our children work,” she said. “They pay for what I provide by working for me, keeping the place clean, obeying my rules. No smoking, no lying, no stealing.”

  “Stealing?” A man wearing a long robe entered through a door I hadn’t seen, right by the altar. He glanced down at us anxiously. “These strays are trying to steal, Dr. Celina?”

  “They’re not stealing, Father. They’re lighting candles,” Celina Aunty started to explain.

  But the boys didn’t wait to hear any more.

  “Come on, Akka.” Muthu scampered out of the church. Arul pulled you out, and I followed. You blinked sulkily in the sunshine that had briefly broken through the clouds.

  “Now you want to find another church, boss?” Muthu said to Arul. “So we can give thanks this priest didn’t accuse us of stealing and send us to a policeman?”

  “Priests don’t accuse kids who are in God’s house,” Arul said, but he didn’t sound very certain.

  “Well, it’s a good thing that priest showed up,” I said, “or we’d have spent every last coin on candles.”

  “Did you see the faith on Rukku’s face?” Arul said. “Her soul’s going to heaven, for sure. With mine.”

  “Good for your souls,” I said. “But can we please use what’s left of our money to take care of our stomachs, too?”

  26

  PRETEND PRINCESSES

  Silver pins of rain fell around us as we left the church. I cast an uneasy glance at the sky. The rainy season had started, and though it was only drizzling now, in the days ahead, we’d face many downpours. Some years, the monsoon was terrible, and it poured nonstop.

  “Tea?” You scratched at a mosquito bite on your elbow. “Tea!”

  “What a good idea, Rukku! Let’s visit Teashop Aunty. Maybe she even has some beads left.”

  I told the boys about Teashop Aunty, and after agreeing to meet back at the graveyard, we parted ways. The boys went to find a new waste mart man, and you and I and Kutti walked toward the teashop.

  We went around the back. I knocked hesitantly on the back door, and a smiling Teashop Aunty came to greet us.

  “Viji! I wondered how you were getting on! And Rukku! You look so much taller, standing so straight and nice.”

  “Rukku looks nice,” you agreed, holding your chin even higher than before.

  “It’s good to see you again, Aunty,” I said.

  “Stay there a moment, and I’ll bring you a cup of tea.” Although Aunty sounded genuinely pleased to see us again, she didn’t invite us into her kitchen. Not that I blamed her, given how scruffy we’d become.

  In a few minutes Teashop Aunty returned with two Styrofoam cups filled with steaming, milky tea.

  “Now, tell me, Viji,” she said as we blew on our tea to cool it. “How are you doing?”

  “My friends and I sell trash to make ends meet,” I said. “But Rukku makes necklaces—like you taught her to—and sells them. Only, we’ve run out of beads. May we borrow some more, if you have some?”

  “Of course.” Teashop Aunty disappeared into her kitchen again, and emerged with a
small package of beads—many fewer and not as pretty as the first set she’d given us, but enough to get you going again. “I kept these for you, Rukku, hoping you’d come back.”

  “Beads!” You pressed the bag so hard, its plastic crinkled. “Beads for Rukku.”

  “We’ll pay you for them by the end of the week,” I said.

  “Nonsense. It’s a gift. Anyway, we’ll be gone by the end of the week. I’m glad you visited because I wanted to tell you—we’re moving out of the city.”

  “Moving out?” I echoed. It wasn’t like we’d known her that well, but still, she was the only motherly person we’d met in the city. “I’m sorry to hear that, Aunty.”

  “Don’t be sorry. My husband’s elder brother wants him to help back in our village, and I’m happy to go.”

  You sneezed, and at the sound, Teashop Aunty gave us one more gift—a packet of yellow powder.

  “Mix some of this in with your milk every day,” she advised. “It’s a mixture of turmeric and some other medicinal powders. It’ll help keep you from falling ill. The monsoon will get worse soon.”

  “Thanks, Aunty.” I didn’t bother pointing out that we had no money for milk. We could mix the powder with water instead.

  A man’s voice called from the front of the shop. Abruptly, Teashop Aunty cut off her chatter. “So nice to see you girls one last time. Good luck.”

  * * *

  • • •

  After we left the teashop, you and I wandered along, looking for a place to make your necklaces. Makeshift stalls stocked with fireworks had sprung up along the sidewalks, and seeing them, I realized the Divali festival was coming up.

  Divali was your least favorite festival. You hated the noisy celebrations, with people setting off fireworks at every street corner.

  We found a park and settled down on a bench under a large tree, whose thick branches gave us some shelter from the drizzle. I found a large plastic bottle and stuck it in the ground, to collect rainwater for us to drink. At least I would have one less worry during the rainy season—we could get our drinking water straight from the sky.

  Kutti nosed through a small mound of garbage, searching for a scrap to eat, his coat glistening.

  “Rukku,” I said, “will you teach me to make necklaces?”

  You weren’t a good teacher—or maybe I wasn’t a good student. I tried watching and imitating what you did, but it took me forever just to string a few beads. Unlike you, I was clumsy with my hands. Beads slipped and rolled away at my touch, and I couldn’t make the complicated knots and loops that gave your necklaces a finished look. I was scrabbling around, trying to pick up some beads I’d spilled, when I heard a girl’s voice behind me.

  “Want this?” A girl stood before us—her school uniform visible beneath her transparent raincoat. A khaki school satchel was hanging off her shoulder.

  “Want this?” she repeated, waving a package at us. “Take it. Please?”

  I looked at the picture of the pretty orange cream cookies on the cover of the package. If I opened my mouth, I was sure I’d drool worse than Kutti.

  “My mother said I mustn’t give money to beggars,” the girl rattled on. “But she said food was okay.”

  I scowled at the girl. “Did you hear us beg?”

  “No . . .” She knit her brows together. “So you’re not beggars, but you’re poor, for sure.”

  I couldn’t argue with that.

  “Giving food to poor children is a good thing.” She smiled, confident and pleased with herself again. “So here are some cookies. For you.”

  You sneezed, wiped your nose on your sleeve, and continued with your beadwork.

  “Come on,” the girl coaxed. “Take them.”

  “Find someone else.” I gave her my haughtiest look.

  “Please? I need to do one good deed every day, Teacher said, and I didn’t get to do one yesterday, and I couldn’t lie, and my best friend, Meena, did two yesterday, and if I can’t do one today, she’ll gloat, so please? Please?”

  She looked so desperate, waving that cookie package. She was the begging one, not me.

  “Fine,” I said.

  “Thank you! Thank you!” She shoved the cookies into my hands and darted off.

  I turned the cookie package around in my hands, feeling like a princess who’d just granted a favor to a pitiful subject.

  27

  HUNGRY GHOST

  After a while, you’d finished two simple necklaces, and I’d finished a half. We managed to sell one of yours, but for a pitiful sum of money. I tried not to be too disappointed—surely our bead sales would pick up again once we had a bigger stock of necklaces to show.

  “Let’s head back,” I said. “It looks like it’s letting up a bit.”

  Pale sunshine poked through a break in the clouds as we walked back to the graveyard. It hardly ever rained all day and all night, even at the peak of the rainy season. But although the rain had been light, we’d stayed out so long that our clothes were wet through.

  I hoped the sun would soon dry us. We had no change of clothes.

  At the graveyard, Kutti ran to greet the boys, who were waiting for us.

  “Any luck?” I asked.

  “Not really,” Arul said. “We went all the way to a waste mart I’d seen before, but it’s gone—they’ve bulldozed the slums in that part of the city to build a shopping complex.”

  “Speaking of building, we found this great place to build a new shelter!” Muthu showed me a grave that was wider than the rest, beneath a banyan tree. “And a nice plastic tablecloth!”

  Not so nice, I thought. The tablecloth stank like the garbage they’d rescued it from. The only thing that was great was how cheerful Muthu sounded.

  The boys suggested we build a tent around the large grave, using it as the floor of our shelter, because it was raised above the soggy ground. You and Muthu dragged some fallen branches over to use as tent poles. We stuck them as deep into the ground as we could. We used one tarp as our roof, tying its four corners to the tops of the tent pole branches with ropes the boys had scrounged up. Once our roof was up, we pulled the other tarp around the poles, securing it as best we could to make three flimsy walls. We hung the tablecloth across the side that was still open, to make a flappy door.

  “We found these three bits of tire, to use as pillows,” Arul said. “I don’t need one. And later we can get new mats.”

  As you and Muthu arranged the pieces of tire in our shelter, you doubled over with a coughing fit. I quickly mixed the powder Teashop Aunty had given us with the rainwater I’d collected. Arul and I set a good example by drinking some of the bitter liquid.

  But Muthu made a huge fuss. “Tastes worse than poison,” he sputtered, swallowing it only after I promised to reward him with a cookie.

  And I couldn’t get you to swallow more than a mouthful. You spat out the first sip and then refused to eat or drink anything else. Not even the bananas Arul had brought or our cookies.

  “Can’t be good for us,” Muthu declared, “if it’s made Rukku lose her appetite.”

  * * *

  • • •

  We squeezed into our new sleeping quarters. I was almost happy it was so cramped, because I was grateful for the warmth—our damp clothes made me feel chilly. And because, though I knew Arul was right that we had nothing to fear from the dead, a part of me was still scared a ghost might float by.

  Ghosts didn’t visit, but swarms of mosquitoes did, feasting on us and droning loudly in our ears.

  “Nice lullaby,” Muthu said. “When we move out of this place, I’ll miss our musical entertainment.”

  “Tomorrow we’ll buy some mosquito repellent,” Arul promised.

  Too tired to swat at the hungry mosquitoes, I dozed off, only to be wakened by the sound of footsteps. Someone was moving around in the graveyard. Had the wa
ste mart man found us? Or was it a ghost?

  I held on to Kutti so he wouldn’t give away our hiding place. His hair was on end, and he stood alert.

  “There’s nothing here.” It was a rasping voice I didn’t recognize. A boy. Definitely not the waste mart man. “This place is nice and peaceful and deserted. Now let’s go back.”

  “I’m telling you, this place is haunted,” came another boy’s voice. “I saw a ghost moving near that banyan tree yesterday evening, when I was cycling by.”

  Arul sat up. He’d heard the approaching voices, too.

  A twig snapped so loudly, it roused you and Muthu.

  “Hungry,” you moaned. “Hungry.”

  “Shhh,” I whispered. “Shhh, please, Rukku.”

  “Did you hear that?” a voice said.

  I stiffened.

  “Didn’t hear anything.” The other boy was trying to sound nonchalant, but his voice trembled.

  “Hungry!” you wailed again. “Hungryyy!”

  “Ghost?” the second voice yelped. “Ghost!”

  “Hungryyyyyy!” you shrieked. “Hungryyyyy!”

  We heard the boys thrashing through the undergrowth, twigs snapping as they rushed away from us through the darkness.

  Muthu’s shoulders shook with suppressed laughter.

  I heard the boys call out for God’s protection and dash away, raising a racket as they stumbled through the dark graveyard.

  Muthu couldn’t control his laughter anymore. It burst out of him, but he did his best to sound like a demonic villain. Arul and I gave in to our laughter, too.

  When we finally stopped roaring, tears were running down my cheeks. By then, you’d tired yourself out.

  “Sorry.” I hiccupped, finally finding the bananas you’d refused to eat that evening and handing you one. “Those boys were just too funny.”