“Great work, Rukku.” Arul patted you on the back. “You just made this graveyard even safer than it was before.”
“What were they up to?” I said. “Daring each other to explore a ‘haunted’ graveyard?”
“Rich boys, for sure,” Arul said. “You have to be rich to waste time going on escapades at night instead of catching up on precious sleep.”
28
DIVALI DUSK
That morning, the three of us brushed our teeth using neem twigs, like Amma said people had done in the old days. The twigs were bitter, so you refused to use them. Plus you were busy sneezing.
“Divali is today and tomorrow,” Arul said, “so shops won’t be open. No point trying to search for a new waste mart man, but we should still try to collect as much as we can so we’ll have a lot to sell by the day after tomorrow.”
“Soon,” Muthu said confidently, “we’ll have tons of stuff, and we’ll find a nice new waste mart man who’ll give us a lot of money, and we’ll buy five packages of those orange cream biscuits—”
“Orange Uncle,” you said.
“An uncle who is an orange?” Muthu said. “Can we nibble on him? It’ll make a nice change from bananas.”
I explained about the gardener who’d thrown an orange at us.
“Let’s try our luck there,” I suggested. “At least if he chases us away again, we might get another orange.”
“Any policemen there?” Muthu wanted to know. “Or watchmen?”
“No, but it was a rich neighborhood, so maybe they’ll pay more for Rukku’s necklaces.”
“Or maybe they got rich by being stingier, so they’ll pay less,” Muthu said.
* * *
• • •
The gardener was weeding a flower bed. He glanced up, as though he could feel my eyes on him.
“I see you’re back.” He wiped his sweaty brow. “And you’ve found work.” Apparently, one look at Arul’s sack, not to mention our filthy clothes, showed him we were in the ragpicking business, because he said, “Wait. I’ll get you some bottles.”
He disappeared around the back of the house and reappeared, carrying a few glass bottles. He was dropping them into Arul’s sack when the rich girl bounded out of the house and flounced over to us in her frilly dress.
“Praba, you’ll get wet!” Her mother followed her out, unfurling an umbrella.
“Your clothes are so dirty!” Admiration and shock mixed together in Praba’s voice. “My mummy would never let me get so dirty.”
Kutti jumped up and licked her hands.
“Mummy, he’s such a friendly doggie,” Praba said. “Please, can I have him?”
“He’s ours!” I told her.
“Please, Mummy,” the girl wheedled, like she hadn’t heard me. Did she think poor, low-caste kids like us didn’t count?
“Rich kids,” Arul muttered. “Think they can get anything they want.”
Kutti shook raindrops off his coat, splattering the mother’s sari. She didn’t seem to mind. She stooped down to pet him, although she murmured, “We probably shouldn’t pet stray dogs, but he can’t be dangerous if he’s with these children . . .”
Kutti seemed to have taken an instant liking to Praba and her mother, who was now looking Kutti over, thoroughly examining his eyes and even his teeth.
“Skinny, but a healthy coat,” she said. “Though he’d probably run away, if we did buy him.”
“He’s not for sale,” I said.
“He won’t run away, Mummy.” The girl stroked Kutti’s muzzle. “I’ll brush his coat so it shines like silk and—”
“Kutti, come here.” I didn’t need to make friends with this silly rich girl. Neither did he. “Now.”
To my satisfaction, Kutti obeyed at once, waggling his tail.
“I know you said he wasn’t for sale, but as Praba’s taken a liking to him . . .” The mother gave me a hesitant smile. “Would you consider parting with him for—let’s say, two thousand rupees?”
Two thousand rupees? My head spun just trying to think of that number, with three beautiful, fat zeros behind it.
Not that it mattered. “I told you he wasn’t for sale.”
“Sure?” the mother said.
“Very,” I said.
“Probably for the best,” the mother said.
“Mummy, you could vaccinate him,” Praba wheedled. “Please, may I get him some food?”
The mother glanced at me.
“Okay,” I said. I couldn’t deprive Kutti of the chance to taste rich people’s food.
The girl scampered back to the house, raindrops dotting her hair like silver beads. You had to have a store of warm, dry clothes to not mind getting so wet.
“We just went shopping for new Divali clothes.” The mother gazed at you as you wiped your runny nose on your torn sleeve. “May I offer you some old clothes? And sweets?”
“Yes, ma’am!” Muthu exclaimed, before I had a chance to reply.
“We don’t need charity.” I glared at him.
“Please accept it as payment for your work,” the mother said. “Without your help recycling waste, our environment would be much filthier.”
Stunned into silence, I stared at her. I’d never thought of our job as helpful, let alone worthy of payment from rich people. For the first time ever, I felt proud of the work we did.
I’d have liked her better if she hadn’t added, “If you change your mind about your dog, let us know.”
* * *
• • •
The drizzle let up long enough for us to shelter behind a rain tree at the end of the avenue and change into our new old clothes. You picked out a red and green skirt. Seeing you dressed in that bright outfit made my mood brighten.
Praba’s mother had also given us a raincoat, which I made you wear when the rain began again. I was worried to hear you sniffling worse than the day before.
We walked past knots of people getting ready to set off firecrackers. I wanted to get you back to the graveyard quickly, away from all this. When he heard the first explosion, Kutti whined and tucked his tail between his legs.
But instead of plugging your ears with your fingers and shutting your eyes and cringing, as you used to do whenever firecrackers went off, you handed me your bag of beads and picked up Kutti.
You whispered to Kutti and stroked him until he was calmer. You were so focused on his fear, you didn’t seem to mind the noise yourself.
29
GOD’S WORMS
Overnight, it poured, and the graveyard became a swamp.
You were coughing in concert with the buzzing hordes of mosquitoes, and we were all slapping and scratching at our skin. Your skin looked the worst—it wasn’t just bumpy with bites, it was dotted with red where you’d scratched so hard, you’d bled.
“Rukku’s the sweetest of us all,” Muthu said. “That’s why the mosquitoes like her best.”
“Looks like she really needs a rest.” Arul shot me a worried look. “You girls want to stay here this morning?”
“Rukku wants to make necklaces.” Your voice was hoarse, but you grabbed your bag of beads and hugged it to your chest. “Rukku wants to help.”
We decided we’d set up shop nearby, so you wouldn’t have to walk far in the rain.
Slimy pink earthworms covered the sidewalk and the road, and we tried avoiding them as we walked, but you noticed one get squashed beneath a cyclist’s tire.
“Owwa!” You pointed at it and rubbed your arm, like you’d been hurt.
“Yes,” I said. “But it’s just a worm.”
You looked at another squashed worm on the sidewalk.
“Paavum.” You laid it gently on your outstretched palm.
“Cheee!” Muthu said. “Put that down, Rukku!”
Kutti nosed your elbow, trying to cheer
you up.
“Ai!” You pointed at the muddy earth surrounding a tree whose trunk had busted right through the sidewalk. “Look, Viji!”
“Yes, those worms are alive, Rukku.”
“Not dead,” you remarked.
“Yes,” I said. “They’re better off there in the mud, for sure.”
“Paavum,” you repeated.
“That worm’s dead, Rukku,” I tried to explain. Death was one of those things, like money, that I wasn’t sure how well you understood. “It’s never going to move again. Ever.”
You ran a finger along the dead worm’s body, then picked it up again and put it on the earth around the tree.
“I think Rukku’s hoping they’ll come back to life if she puts them on the earth,” Arul said. “After all, the dead ones are only on the road or the sidewalk. You’re trying to save them, aren’t you, Rukku?”
“Rukku’s the best helper.” You found another dead worm on the pavement and put it on the earth. “Arul wants to help?”
“Can’t, Rukku.” He bit his lip, and let a lifeless worm dangle between his fingers before he dropped it on the wet earth. “They’re dead. Gone. You can’t bring them back to life. None of us can.”
You pouted, but refused to stop, transporting a third worm from the gray concrete onto the grassy earth.
“Maybe we’re God’s worms,” Muthu said suddenly.
“What?” Arul glared at him.
“I’m not being disrespectful, boss.” Muthu stared at the thickening rain. “God must be so high up, we must look like worms to him. So when we’re starving, he probably just feels like we feel when we see a worm die—a little sad, but not much. I guess God feels a little bit sad for us, but not enough to send us all food.”
“I’d settle for God sending us a little less rain,” I said. “Then we could find our own food. Come on, Rukku. We can’t stay here all day.”
“Leave her be.” Arul crouched down with you, patting your hand as you crooned to the dead worms. “We’re not sweet enough to mourn the worms. Someone should.”
So we stayed.
A bus careered past and sprayed us with a fountain of rust-brown puddle water, drenching us. My blouse was plastered to my skin. Your new skirt was sopping wet below the raincoat that stretched only to your knees.
You were shivering and coughing, but you started stringing beads while we sang out, “Bead necklaces, pretty bead necklaces!”
For the first time ever, a few beads rolled off your tired fingers. But you didn’t stop until every last bead was gone.
Your busy fingers made so many necklaces, Rukku.
I still have one, the only one we didn’t sell, and nights when I just can’t get to sleep here, I count the beads on it, like it’s my own kind of rosary.
30
MUTHU’S TALE
The money we made selling your necklaces was all we had that day—and it was even less than we’d made last time.
“We should get Rukku some medicine,” I said. “And I’m not going one more night without mosquito repellent.”
“I’d rather eat well and let the mosquitoes eat well, too,” Muthu argued. He wanted to spend every last coin we had on food, but Arul supported me.
We ended up spending half our money on repellent and cough syrup. Which meant we went to bed with half-empty bellies again.
Worse, you wouldn’t let me rub the repellent on you properly, because you didn’t like the sticky feel of ointment on your skin.
But in spite of the cough syrup, you weren’t any better the next morning.
“You two stay and rest,” Arul said. “Muthu and I will see if we can sell the bottles the gardener gave us.”
The boys set off, and I began telling you your favorite story. Kutti lay close to us, the scent of his wet fur comforting me as much as his warmth.
When I got to the end, about us always being together, you stared off into the distance as though you could see a palace floating in the air. The look in your eyes scared me. I didn’t want you traveling all alone to our palace.
I turned over and lay on my elbows and read my book to you until you dozed off. I felt so faint with hunger that it was an effort just to reread the pages while I waited for the boys’ return.
“Bananas!” Muthu’s cry woke you.
We crept out of the shelter.
“We found a new waste mart man, but he’s worse than stingy.” Arul’s forehead was scrunched up in a worried frown. “He drove a really hard bargain. Gave us next to nothing for all that glass. It’s a good thing Rukku’s favorite food is cheap.”
When Muthu saw no response from you to your favorite food, he clapped his hands in mock joy. “Bananas, Rukku! It’s so long since we last had any! I’ve forgotten how good they taste!” He bit one, swallowed it right away without even seeming to chew it, and let out a full-throated belch. “See? Is that a miracle or what? We can burp, though we’ve eaten next to nothing. Now do you believe in God, Akka?”
I laughed, though I was worried about you not eating.
And even Arul laughed, instead of telling Muthu he was going to hell.
That was a miracle.
* * *
• • •
That evening your skin was warm to the touch, and I was overcome with guilt. I’d come to the city hoping for a better life. As soon as you were better, I needed to do more than just dream about finding a school where we could both study. The closest we’d come to that was meeting that kind woman at church. I’d thrown away the card she’d given me, but the address had stuck in my brain.
“Maybe we should go see the lady we met in church—Celina Aunty—tomorrow,” I said. “We could go to school and—”
“School?” Muthu sputtered. “No way!”
“Why shouldn’t we see what she has to offer?”
“That woman is a liar,” Muthu cried.
“No she isn’t. She told the priest we weren’t thieves, remember?”
“Why?” Muthu demanded. “Why should a well-dressed woman care enough to argue with a priest for the sake of kids she doesn’t know?”
“Because she’s good?”
“Because she’s trying to catch us and sell us,” Muthu said.
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“You’re the one being ridiculous,” he said. “I went to one of those ‘schools’ once. It was a prison.”
“What?”
Arul put his arm around Muthu. “You don’t have to tell.”
“I must,” Muthu said. “Akka needs to know.”
“Know what?” I was scared to ask. Muthu’s tone was so serious, so different from usual.
You and Kutti sensed the change in him, too. You touched his cheek with a tired hand. Kutti shifted his position and laid his head on Muthu’s lap.
“I was sold to a ‘school’ once,” Muthu said. “A school where they ‘taught’ us to make handbags. We had to cut and sew all day. They kept us locked in. The man who called himself our owner only let us go to the bathroom at dawn and at night after our work was done. To eat, we only got stale rotis—if we were lucky.”
I shivered, but from the coldness of his voice, not the damp, chilly air.
“If we didn’t finish as many handbags as he demanded, or didn’t do whatever he said we must, he lashed us with his leather belt until we bled.”
I took one of Muthu’s palms in my own, but he didn’t respond to my touch. His mind seemed far away.
“One day,” Muthu continued, “police raided the place and took us to an orphanage. But the woman at the orphanage was a rakshasi.” He shuddered. “A demon. She beat us, too. Not as bad as the man, but bad enough that I ran away.”
“I found him,” Arul said, picking up where Muthu had left off, “hiding behind a garbage can. We shared some food, and by the next morning . . .”
“Not boss,” Arul said. “Brother.”
“No.” Muthu was firm.
“If Viji can be your sister, why can’t I—”
“Boss is better,” Muthu said. “My stepbrother’s the one who sold me.”
Arul looked so upset, I knew it was the first time he’d heard that part of Muthu’s story.
Listening to the rain plinking against the gravestones, I stared at our tarp roof that was swaying in the strengthening wind. Muthu’s tale had horrified me, but I wasn’t sure he was right about Celina Aunty.
My back hadn’t felt like a snake was crawling up it when I’d met Celina Aunty, like I’d felt with the creepy waste mart man and the nasty bus driver. If anything, she seemed unusually kind.
But could I really trust my feelings? I hadn’t been on my own as long as Arul and Muthu—surely they knew this world better than I did.
31
FEVER
All through that starless night, your breath came in wheezy gasps as raindrops wriggled, like silver snakes, through the gaps in our tent.
When I rubbed mosquito repellent on your skin, your eyelids fluttered open, but you were too tired to shove me away.
I would have given anything to see you throw a tantrum or complain.
I mashed a bit of the last blackened, limp banana between my fingers, and you swallowed a few small bites. Then you sipped some water.
Before I could rejoice, thinking you were on the mend, you clutched at your stomach, crawled a few feet away, retched, and threw up.
Muthu stirred awake, and his eyes had a glazed, feverish look. “Look at him,” I said to Arul. “Now Muthu’s ill, too.”
“I’m just too full to move after that fine meal we had last night,” Muthu joked, though his voice was softer than usual.
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