The Bridge Home

by Padma Venkatraman

  Waiting for him to lecture me about you being in heaven, I chewed a mouthful of rice.

  But Arul only said, “If you really think the only place Rukku’s still alive is inside you, you know what you need to do, right?”

  “What?”

  “You’ve got to start loving yourself like you loved her, like you were able to allow yourself to even love your dad.”

  “Not sure if that was love, exactly,” I said. “Anyway, there’s something else I need to tell you two.”

  “What?” Muthu said.

  “I’m going to that other school Celina Aunty talked about.”

  Muthu stuck his tongue out at me, but Arul whooped.

  “Yes!” Arul said. “You’re going to do so much with your life.”

  “What if I’m not good enough?” I voiced my fear.

  “Then you can come back here,” Muthu said. “I hope you’re not good enough.”

  “Don’t be silly,” Arul said. “She’ll become a teacher like she wanted, and she’ll build a school for kids like us.”

  “Who’ll you name your school after?” Muthu asked me, as if I were building one already.

  “You should name it after our father,” Arul said. “Remember? Our father, O. R. T. Narayan. Hallowed be his name.”

  I was so amazed to hear him joking about God that I said, totally serious, “I’ll name it after you, Arul. Rukku and Muthu and you.”

  “After me?” Muthu grinned. “Then I guess I’d better start paying attention to my lessons.”

  44

  WHEREVER YOU ARE

  As I write to you now, Rukku, I travel. Back.

  I feel the rain on our backs as you crouch on the road, trying to save worms.

  I hear you humming to Kutti, holding him close in your comforting arms as a firework explodes on Divali night.

  I see your proud smile as you hand the balloon vendor your very own money at the beach.

  I see your tongue between your teeth as you concentrate on finishing a bead necklace.

  I see your fingertips as you hold the orange the gardener threw at us.

  I see you fling your beloved doll at the driver to defend me from danger.

  I hear you and Muthu belly laughing together on our bridge.

  Your laugh was so strong. So strong it makes me smile, even now, just remembering.

  Writing is an odd thing. Writing today, in this book, I realize I sometimes saw things the wrong way around when they were happening.

  All this while, I thought I’d looked after you, but now I see it was often the opposite.

  You gave me strength.

  By never letting me get away with a lie.

  By showing me small miracles.

  By laughing at all the wrong times.

  Together we were such a good team.

  And now I’ll keep trying, Rukku. To carry your laughter with me and march forward.

  To love you but live in today, not in yesterday.

  Moving ahead doesn’t mean leaving you behind. I finally understand that.

  And I guess how you live matters more than how long you live. Every happy moment we had, every bit of love we shared, still glows. We’re together in my heart and always will be.

  So I’m living with my whole heart, Rukku. And imagining with my whole mind.

  Imagining Lalitha, my new friend, all grown up, living on her own, laughing away with Arul and Muthu. Imagining me, all grown up, too, a teacher at last. Imagining you drinking cold, bubbly soda in a nice, fancy palace and burping louder than Muthu ever could.

  Imagining you can hear me say, I love you, Rukku.

  Imagining so hard, I can almost feel you patting me again, see you beaming, hear you saying, Rukku loves Viji, right back.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  As I was growing up in India, my mother was the only single mom I knew. Despite our own fraught economic situation, she always devoted time and energy to charitable causes—especially those that provided education for children who were even less privileged than I was. Early in my life, I was introduced to the work done by the Concerned for Working Children, an organization that has now grown and become established and been nominated for the Nobel Peace Prize. I also spent time at the village school in Nilbagh, a night school for children of fisherfolk, and a school for Roma children, and I met people involved with organizations such as the Mobile Creches, CRY, and Balbhavan. Even after I moved to the United States, I remained interested in issues confronting children who lack so many of the privileges that I now have. In recent years, along with my mother, my late aunt Visalam, my aunt Renuka, and my uncle Subra, I have had the pleasure of visiting other schools and homes in India where children are offered support and assistance, such as the V-Excel Educational Trust. Celina Aunty’s refuge in the book is based on these homes and schools.

  Despite all the good work that is done, however, many children face problems that result from a lack of understanding, lack of resources, or lack of compassion. This story draws largely on first-person accounts of what real children have undergone. In writing it, I not only interviewed adults and children but also relied, very heavily, on detailed journal accounts. Many children visited us and confided in my mother, sometimes deeply questioning the existence of a higher power, and I faithfully recorded the tales they told about their struggles in diaries that I kept until I left India in my late teens. Viji’s character is modeled in part on a young girl called Indira, who referred to herself as my “akka” and often spent long evenings with my mother, recounting her early life and the terrible trials she had faced. The characters of Rukku, Arul, and Muthu are also based on children I knew, and many of the incidents in the novel are drawn from first-person accounts. Out of respect for the real people on whom this story is based, I felt I could not change fundamental events that took place if I truly wished to honor their memories and their lives.

  In India, a staggering number of children—millions—are homeless. In cities, it is commonplace to see homeless children younger than Muthu eking out a living on the streets as best they can. Some children run away because of domestic violence, as Viji does, hoping to find a better life; others are abandoned. Homeless children often face discrimination based on caste, gender, disability, ethnicity, and so on. Many of these children are proud of earning an independent living, and they fight fiercely to hold on to their fragile freedom. A common form of work is sifting through trash to salvage and sell recyclable material; “ragpicker” children may earn less than a dollar a day. And although the exchange rate from dollars to rupees varies, and the cost of articles also fluctuates greatly in India, these children are always paid hardly anything for their work and are forced to live on shockingly little. Unfortunately, these children are in constant danger of being forced into even more terrifying situations; many seek to enslave and abuse them.

  Hunger and poverty are not issues that affect South Asia alone. They are global problems that millions of children and adults face. In many parts of the world, children suffer without any end in sight, and without proper food, clothing, housing, and education; they are frequently subjected to violence. As I wrote this novel, I also became increasingly aware of the plight of children in the United States and in my own home state of Rhode Island, where some children still experience problems as basic as hunger and homelessness.

  Many children remain strong despite suffering even more severely than the four in this novel, and this book is written with the hope that children everywhere will someday live in a world that treasures and nurtures them.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Thanks to the many who took time out of their busy schedules to speak to me as I conducted research for this novel, as well as the many whom I met as a child (and yes, I was listening and taking notes all those years back, though I didn’t let on): Dr. Anadalakshmi, Ms. Amba, Mr. and Mrs. Azaraiah, Dr. Indu Balagopal, Siste
r Catherine, Ms. Shantha Gandhi, Mr. David Hosburgh, Ms. Rita Kapoor, Ms. Amuktha Appa Rao Mahapatra, Dr. Vasuda Prakash, Ms. Nandana Reddy, and Ms. Mina Swaminathan.

  In writing, I elicited the help of several incredible and generous beta readers (doctors, nurses, psychiatrists, psychologists, social workers, teachers, and many people with many diverse backgrounds, some of them writers themselves), among them Lyn Miller-Lachmann, first and foremost; Samuel Stockwell; Cindy Rodriguez; Laurie Rothenberg; Celina Pereira; Amitha Knight; Morgan Goodney; Susan Dubowski; Kristy Dempsey; Betty Cotter; Carrie Banks; Armin Arethna; Haley; Joanne; the Mutotas and the Bajajs; and the Generations Sangha. Others helped immensely but asked not to be named, and I thank them for their time, attention, and sensitivity.

  Profound thanks to my most important readers of all—my brilliant editor, Nancy Paulsen, for her steadfast support of me, unshakable faith in this story, spot-on suggestions, thought-provoking questions, and incredible patience; my agent, Rob Weisbach, for always helping me overcome anxiety and stay cheerful and for providing insightful comments as this story was sculpted into shape; Sara LaFleur, Eileen Kreit, Carmela Iaria, Venessa Carson, Alexis Watts, and the entire team at Penguin Young Readers, who work so hard and with such love and dedication to spread the word about each new book; Jennifer Bricking for the lovely cover; and my husband and daughter, who will, I hope, soon read and love this book (but whom I promise I’ll love even if they don’t).

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Padma Venkatraman was born in Chennai, India, and became an American citizen after attaining a Ph.D. in oceanography from The College of William and Mary. She is also the author of A Time to Dance (IBBY selection, ALA Notable, CCBC Choice, Notable Books for a Global Society winner, and South Asia Book Award Honor Book), Island's End (ALA Best Book of the Year, ALA/Amelia Bloomer List selection, and CCBC Best Book), and Climbing the Stairs (Julia Ward Howe Award, Bank Street Best Book, YALSA BBYA selection, Notable Social Studies Trade Book for Young People, and CCBC Choice).

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