The Bridge Home

by Padma Venkatraman

  * * *

  • • •

  At the first light of dawn, while Amma and Appa slept, I woke and changed into my best blouse and ankle-length pavadai as silently as I could. Around my waist, I tied the drawstring purse with Amma’s gift of money. Then I crammed a sheet, some towels, and a change of clothes for each of us into our school backpacks. I added a bar of soap, a comb, and the pink plastic jar of tooth powder to your bag; from the kitchen, I grabbed a bunch of bananas—your favorite fruit—to add to mine.

  Our bags were heavy, but I couldn’t bear to leave behind the book from Parvathi Teacher. Carrying it along was like taking her blessings with us, I told myself as I forced it into my bag.

  Then I woke you.

  “Shhup. Don’t say a word, Rukku, please. Just get changed. We’re leaving.”

  Sleep weighed down your eyelids, but you did as I asked. Perhaps it felt like a dream to you.

  As we shuffled toward the front door, you cast a bewildered glance at our parents’ bedroom.

  “Amma?” you said.

  Memories of our rare happy moments gleamed in my mind, like sunshine slipping into a dark room: the day Amma had helped you make a bead necklace, the night she’d sat by our beds and listened to the story I’d told you.

  For a moment I hesitated. But then I glanced at your cut lip—the proof Appa had given me that he’d keep on hurting you as long as you were nearby.

  We had to leave, right away, before fear or doubt slowed me down.

  4

  ESCAPE

  You followed me unquestioningly until I turned down a different road, away from our usual route to school.

  “School?”

  “No, Rukku. We’re going to a new place. A nicer place.”

  “Nicer place?”

  “Far from here. You and me.”

  “Rukku and Viji together?” You offered me your soft, trusting hand.

  With our fingers interlinked, I felt braver. I led the way to the main road, where buses to and from the city roared through our village.

  In front of the bus stop sign, a woman was already waiting, chewing tobacco as placidly as a cow chewing its cud. A large basket filled with coconuts was beside her.

  “Waiting for the bus to the city?” My voice trembled as I checked to make sure we were in the right place.

  “Aamaam,” she confirmed. Her eyes roved across my face, which was smarting with pain, and then settled on your cut lip, but she didn’t comment.

  Soon enough, a bus arrived, raising a cloud of red dust that made you sneeze. The woman balanced the coconut basket on her head and climbed in.

  “Come, Rukku.”

  “No.” You dug in your heels.

  “Rukku, come!” I stepped into the bus.

  “No, no, no,” you sang out. “No.”

  The driver honked to hurry us.

  “I’ll give you a sweet.” I tugged at you. “I’ll give you a sweet when we’re in the city.”

  You wriggled free of my grip.

  “Get in or get out!” the driver yelled. “I can’t wait all morning!”

  The bus started to pull away.

  I leaped out.

  You jumped in.

  “Vijiiiiii!” You leaned halfway out of the bus.

  Horrified, I raced behind it.

  I’d never have caught up to that bus if it hadn’t been for the conductor’s shrill whistle, calling the driver to a stop.

  I climbed in, squishing down my sudden urge to haul you off the bus and run home.

  The conductor helped me lead you down the aisle.

  “Sweet?” You settled into a seat, and I slid in beside you.

  “Not yet.” I tried to catch my breath. “Don’t have any sweets, Rukku.”

  The conductor looked at me and then at you, and stuck a hand in his pocket and pulled out a hard green sweet that had melted out of shape.

  Green was your favorite color. You gave him a lopsided grin.

  “Thanks,” I said. “You’re very kind, sir.”

  “No need for thanks. Going to the city?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He handed me our tickets.

  My hand was shaking as I opened the drawstring purse at my waist, partly because I was nervous, partly from shock at how high the fare was. The tickets used up most of our money.

  You unwrapped the sweet, popped it in your mouth, and stared at the green rice fields that flashed past the window. I wondered if you understood we were leaving forever. I was never sure what the words yesterday and tomorrow meant to you. Your sense of time was different from mine.

  “Marapachi?” You rummaged in your bag, pulled out your wooden doll, and talked to her for a while. Then you stuck her back in your bag and slumped against my shoulder. The motion of the bus soon made your eyelids droop.

  While you slept, doubts slithered into my mind. Had I done the right thing? Where would we go, once we reached the city? How would we survive?

  5

  SHARDS OF GLASS

  You jerked awake as the bus thudded to a halt. “We’re here,” I said, trying to sound cheerful.

  The open-air bus terminal was packed with people shouting, laughing, and arguing. The smell of ripe guavas, piled high on a handcart pushed by a vendor, mixed with the smell of diesel smoke from buses. You held Marapachi close to your chest and stroked her wooden head.

  As I wondered which way to go, I heard a voice right behind us. “There you girls are.”

  I whipped around.

  It was the bus driver. He’d crept so close behind that I could feel his hot, foul-smelling breath on my neck. “You girls need a job? Money? I’ll show you around the city.”

  I didn’t dare answer.

  “What’s her name?” He jerked a thumb at you.

  For once, I was relieved he hadn’t asked you directly. You weren’t as suspicious of people as I was, and the last thing we needed was to strike up a conversation with him.

  I quickened our pace, but he kept up.

  “Come with me.” His hand came down on my arm and formed a vise.

  “Let go!” I struggled. “Let go!”

  A few bystanders glanced our way, but no one tried to stop him.

  I tried to kick his shin—and missed.

  “Don’t you dare, you filthy low-caste brat!” He twisted my arm so hard, I gasped.

  “No,” I heard you cry. “No!”

  Your arm swung back, and with all your might, you flung your hard wooden doll at him.

  Marapachi hit his forehead with a satisfying thwack. He cursed, his grasp loosening enough for me to wrench free.

  We raced away, deeper and deeper into the safety of the crowd.

  * * *

  • • •

  When I finally felt safe enough to risk a look back, the bus driver was lost to my sight. Still, I decided we’d be better off if we crossed the road outside the terminal, putting as much distance between us as possible.

  We waited for a break in traffic. And waited.

  I’d never seen such an endless flood of vehicles and pedestrians. Other people were darting in and out of the traffic, disregarding the deafening horns. Somehow they weren’t getting run over. Holding you close, I stepped into the gap between a three-wheeled rickshaw and a motorbike. The motorbike almost ran over my toes.

  “No, no, no!” You held my hand in a crushing grip.

  “Move!” someone behind us snarled.

  I heard the unlikely tinkle of a cow’s bell. A great white cow was fording through the river of traffic, vehicles parting to let it through.

  “Good cow.” You put your hand on the beast’s side as though you owned it. It didn’t seem to mind.

  Protected by the cow’s bulk, we managed to reach the other side of the street.

  “G
ood cow.” You ran your hands along its neck.

  “Yes, it’s a good cow, but that bus driver was bad, Rukku. We’ve got to keep moving.”

  We came to a slightly less busy side street. On either side were run-down buildings that reminded me of our apartment. Towels, underwear, and faded saris flapped on clotheslines hung across the balconies.

  Turning the corner, we found ourselves on an even narrower street, lined with shacks selling food. In one of them, a man stood behind a rickety counter. You watched, fascinated, as he poured steaming tea from one glass tumbler into another, until a layer of froth bubbled across the rim.

  “We deserve a treat,” I said. “How about sweet, milky tea instead of the sweet I promised you?”

  “Tea,” you agreed.

  I was worried about how little money we had left, so I ordered us just one to share. As it warmed my hands and bubbles of froth tickled my lips, I knew it was worth the price.

  I sipped slowly, then held it out to you. “Careful, Rukku. It’s hot.”

  But before you could wrap your fingers around the slippery glass, I accidentally let go. You squealed, “Ai-ai-yo!”

  Horrified, I watched the glass shatter on the ground, spattering tea across the hems of our skirts.

  “Pretty.” You reached down for a sparkly shard of glass.

  “Don’t touch!” I grabbed your hands. “It’s sharp, Rukku! It’ll give you an owwa!”

  “Owwa,” you echoed sulkily.

  The teashop owner scowled at us. “Do you know how much that glass cost?” he asked.

  Not that much, I was sure, but just before I opened my mouth to apologize, an idea struck me.

  “Sir?” I offered. “We’ll work to pay for the broken glass.”

  “Okay. Clean up the mess.” The teashop owner stuck his hands on his hips. “Then go to the kitchen and help my wife.”

  “Yes, sir,” I said.

  “Viji?” You sounded uncertain.

  “Everything’s fine, Rukku.” I gave you a quick hug. “We’ve found our first job.”

  6

  TEASHOP

  The smell of roasting chillis tickled my nose as we ducked through the narrow doorway into the tiny kitchen at the back of the teashop.

  A woman in a wrinkled gray sari turned away from the stove and looked at us. Her body was all sharp angles, but there was a softness in her eyes.

  “We broke a glass,” I explained. “We’re working to pay it off.”

  The woman mopped her sweaty face with the free end of her sari.

  “You’ll help wash up?” she asked instead of ordering.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Call me aunty,” she invited, with a quick smile. “Not rich enough to be called ma’am.” She motioned at a stack of dirty glasses and plates.

  I set our bags down beneath a shelf on which I saw a plastic image of Lakshmi, the Goddess of wealth, seated on a pink lotus. Though it was clear that the Goddess hadn’t yet showered the teashop couple with riches, she was well looked after: a fresh jasmine garland was tucked across the picture, and a lighted incense stick was placed beneath it. Next to the Goddess was a picture of a young girl who had Aunty’s eyes—whose photograph was also decorated with a jasmine garland.

  I walked to the kitchen sink, but Teashop Aunty said, “No running water this time of day. Use the pail.” Below the sink, I saw a green plastic bucket filled with water. There was a bit of coconut husk that I could use to scrape the dishes clean, and a tin of powdered soap.

  “Don’t use too much,” she said. “Or he’ll be shouting at us.”

  I liked that she said us, though she didn’t even know my name yet.

  “And we only have one more bucket of water. No more running water until four A.M. tomorrow.”

  “I thought in the city, people could get water from the tap whenever they wanted,” I said.

  “The city is the worst place,” she said. “But my husband wants to live here, so what can I do?” She jerked her chin at you. “Your sister?”

  “Yes. I’m Viji, and this is my sister, Rukku.”

  “Poor thing.” She looked at you with pitying eyes—which I didn’t like. But I kept my mouth shut. It could have been worse. She could have called you names and then I’d have started boiling inside like the oil in her frying pan.

  “You come from where?”

  I rinsed off a glass.

  “Ran away?” she asked.

  “Yes.” There was no point trying to hide it. Our story was clearly written on my swollen face and your cut lip—but I didn’t want to tell her the details and risk her feeling even sorrier for us.

  Smoke billowed up from the hot oil, and Teashop Aunty turned back to the stove. She rolled some vadai dough into a ball.

  Before she could do much more, you came over, pinched off another bit of dough, and rolled it between your palms, just as she was doing.

  “She can do that quite well!” Teashop Aunty sounded amazed.

  “Rukku’s made vadais before.” I tried not to let her surprise annoy me. Even the teachers at school—except for Parvathi Teacher—never bothered to find out how much you could do; Amma didn’t really know either. “She’s good with her hands. And she loves making bead necklaces.”

  “Rukku likes beads.” You flattened the ball into a perfect circle, concentrating, with the tip of your tongue between your lips. “Rukku is a good helper.”

  “Ah! Very nice!” Teashop Aunty said.

  I returned to the dishes as you helped her with the dough.

  You started humming tunelessly as you worked. Homesickness pinched my heart for a moment. I thought of the rare weekends when Appa was away and Amma had enough energy to join us so we could cook a meal together.

  By the time I was done with the washing, my hands felt raw, but the dishes were clean, and the teashop man grumpily agreed I’d done more than enough.

  “You’ll be all right?” Teashop Aunty asked, keeping her voice low so that the teashop man wouldn’t hear.

  “We’ll be fine,” I said.

  Looking relieved, Teashop Aunty pressed two large bananas into your hands and a few vadais, hastily wrapped in a banana leaf, into mine. Then she let us out through the back door, into a lonely alley littered with plastic bags and broken bottles.

  7

  LOST PUPPY

  Dusk was beginning to fall as we wandered out into the narrow street. My courage fell, too, with every step.

  Fingering what was left of our money, I wondered how long it would last us. I regretted being too proud to share our story with Teashop Aunty. I should have asked her for help with finding a safe place to stay.

  “Find Marapachi,” you demanded.

  “She’s gone,” I said. “You threw her at the bad man, remember?”

  “Marapachi,” you repeated, louder.

  “You saved me, Rukku. You were a hero.”

  “Marapachi!” you yelled.

  “We have better things to worry about than your doll,” I burst out.

  “Amma!” You turned your back to me. “Amma!”

  “She’s not here either. We just have each other now.”

  You plopped down, right there on the dusty street.

  “Fine. Sit.”

  “Rukku wants Amma! Rukku wants Marapachi!”

  “Shouting’s not going to bring them here.”

  You scowled at me, and I spun on my heel and strode away, hoping you’d follow, but you didn’t. I waited at the end of the street for a while, but you seemed quite content to stay where you were.

  You won that round.

  When I came back for you, you were bending over a skinny puppy with huge dark eyes.

  “Get away from that puppy, Rukku. It might bite.”

  At the sound of my voice, the puppy thumped its tail. You stroked i
t tenderly, with just one finger.

  “Come on. Please?” I said.

  You started humming to the puppy. It licked you with its pink tongue.

  “I’m really sorry, Rukku.”

  You made no move to show me you’d heard, though you usually forgave me if I sounded apologetic.

  I crouched beside you.

  The puppy looked right at me, and his nose crinkled, like he was smiling.

  I couldn’t help petting him. His coat was smooth. He wiggled and sniffed my hand.

  “Rukku’s dog.”

  I sighed. “We don’t have enough to eat or a proper place to sleep yet, and you want to adopt this orphan?”

  “Kutti,” you announced, tapping his head. “Kutti.”

  “Kutti? That’s what we’re calling him?”

  I knew there was no point trying to get you to leave the puppy behind. And I didn’t want to leave Kutti behind either.

  Because he’d smiled at me. And because he made you so happy. Your eyes were as shiny as the puppy’s wet nose.

  “Okay,” I said. “But now we need to find a place to sleep.”

  “Come.” You stood and beckoned to the puppy. “Come, Kutti.”

  Kutti pricked up his ears and stood attentively at your side, like he understood you perfectly.

  “I have no idea where to go,” I admitted. “You choose.”

  You broke into the widest grin I’d ever seen and started marching down the street. Realizing with a twinge of guilt that I’d never let you lead before, I followed.

  On one street corner, three boys had already settled in for the night, huddled together on a tattered straw mat behind a dumpster. We saw another group of kids still at work, trying to sell newspapers to people who were stopped in their cars at a traffic light.

  It felt good to have Kutti trotting close to our heels along the dark streets. He was probably too small to scare away strangers, but surely he’d bark in warning if someone tried to sneak up on us when we went to sleep.