The Bridge Home

by Padma Venkatraman

  If we ever found a place to sleep.

  We walked beneath a huge billboard with a larger-than-life picture of a woman decked in gold jewelry—not just bangles and necklaces and earrings and nose rings, but even golden hair clips.

  “Pretty,” you said, pausing beneath it. “Pretty?”

  GOLD AT SUPER-LOW PRICES AT THANGAM HOUSE, the billboard proclaimed—though the price for the necklace it advertised was a number followed by more zeros than I cared to count. “What comes after the ten thousands, Rukku?”

  “Eleven,” you said promptly. “Ten, eleven.”

  “Right.” I smiled. “After ten is eleven, and we’ll never have tens of thousands of rupees, so who cares what comes next?”

  We wandered onto a wider road that led to a river. Two bridges spanned it—one was well lit with traffic rumbling across it; the other was dark and deserted.

  We headed to the deserted bridge. Concrete lions stood on either side of what must have once been the grand entrance, and a crumbling concrete wall ran along its sides. The perfect spot to stay overnight, I decided. Probably the most secluded spot we could get in this city.

  “Careful,” I warned as we picked our way around the holes in the ruined bridge.

  “Pretty.” You pointed at the river that glittered like crushed glass far below us.

  Halfway across the bridge, I saw a makeshift shelter. Someone had made a tent with a tarpaulin. Rocks held one edge of the tarpaulin in place along the wall of the bridge. The tent sloped down to the ground, where its other edge was held down with an old car tire. A cleverly built home, with one wall, a sloping roof, and two entrances.

  “Looks like it was abandoned ages ago,” I said. “Want to stay here?”

  “Rukku wants to eat.” You gobbled the bananas, and Kutti and I finished off the vadais.

  Our food was gone before I realized I should have saved something for the next day.

  It was beginning to get dark, but I could make out a boy marching up the bridge. He reminded me of a sunflower. Matted hair that looked like it had never met a comb stuck out like petals around a face that seemed much too large for his skinny body. He wore an oversize yellow T-shirt and a raggedy pair of shorts and held a bag and a wooden stick.

  “Vanakkam,” I greeted him, relieved that he was smaller than us.

  “Go away,” he said, instead of echoing vanakkam in return.

  “You’re polite, aren’t you?” I said.

  “If you stay here, my boss will come and . . .” He punched at the air. “Tishoom. Tishoom. He’ll show you.”

  “Tishoom.” You imitated him, repeating his nonsense word. “Tishoom. Tishoom.”

  He smiled at you.

  Then he turned to me and said in a tone he seemed to think was impressive, “My boss is coming, with the rest of our gang.”

  “Your gang?” I peered into the gloom. No one else, as far as I could see.

  “Ten—I mean, twenty boys, all ten times taller than me.”

  “You’re a bad liar,” I said.

  “Owwa!” You pointed at a scab on his knee.

  “Don’t worry,” he said to you, and he sat down cross-legged, pulling his T-shirt over his scraggy knees. “It doesn’t hurt anymore.”

  Kutti sniffed at the boy and licked him.

  “My name’s Muthu,” he said. “What’s your dog called?”

  “Rukku’s dog,” you said with pride. You sat right next to Muthu, as though he’d invited us to visit. “Kutti.”

  He patted Kutti tentatively. Then he glanced behind us. “Look! That’s my boss.”

  8

  ON A RUINED BRIDGE

  A boy at least a head taller than me, though just as skinny as Muthu, was walking up the bridge. He had a wild mop of red-tinged black hair. A sack was slung across his shoulder, and he held a stick that was much sturdier and longer than Muthu’s.

  “Who are you?” the tall boy said.

  “Who are you?” I said, drawing myself up to full height.

  “I told you,” Muthu said. “He’s the big boss.”

  “What are you doing on our bridge?” the boy said.

  “Your bridge? Why didn’t you build a better one? Like that?” I pointed at the newer bridge.

  Kutti trotted over, sniffed at the tall boy’s bare feet, and then wagged his tail.

  “Rukku.” You gave the tall boy a warm grin and poked yourself in the ribs, then jabbed me. “Viji.”

  “I’m Arul.” He flashed you a smile and then tried to look all stern. “We live here.”

  “So do we,” I said.

  “Get out,” Arul said, so weakly that I guessed he was just putting on a show of protesting because Muthu was watching.

  “We’re already outside, in case you haven’t noticed.” I waved at the starry sky above, the twinkling river below. “And I don’t need your permission to sleep here. It’s not like you inherited this from your dad.”

  “Get your own tarp,” he said. It was as good as a yes.

  “You’re going to let them stay, Arul?” Muthu said.

  “We’re staying.” I gave him a smug smile. “No letting.”

  Arul tickled Kutti behind the ears and then disappeared into his tent. Muthu crawled in after him.

  I found a relatively rubble-free patch of ground and spread out our sheet. Not that it made the ground any softer.

  “Amma,” you said, and looked all around us, as though our mother might pop out of the river and fly up through a hole in the bridge. “Amma?”

  I put my arms around you, but you kept crying her name.

  Kutti snuggled up to you, and you clutched one of his paws. He didn’t seem to mind.

  Hugging him close, like you used to hug your doll, you finally lay down on our sheet. “Story?”

  Maybe hearing the familiar words would help take your mind off Amma. And my mind off the bumpy ground.

  Not wanting the boys to overhear, I lowered my voice to a whisper. “Once upon a time, two sisters ruled a magical land.”

  “Viji and Rukku,” you put in.

  “Yes. Us. We used to be princesses, the two of us. We slept on soft pink pillows in a beautiful palace. Every morning, we’d wake to the sound of birds singing and the sight of peacocks dancing. White lotuses shone bright as stars in the lake at the center of our green garden. From this lake, a silver stream slipped out beyond our palace gates into the rest of our kingdom.

  “No one in our kingdom was ever thirsty, because everyone could drink from that sparkling stream. And no one in our kingdom was cruel. Grown-ups never fought, and every child had all the dolls and toys they ever wanted.”

  “Dolls,” you echoed. I was afraid you’d ask for Marapachi again, but you didn’t start fussing.

  “Every morning you made beautiful bead necklaces and I read you stories. We had hundreds and hundreds of books. Every afternoon we rode horses that could gallop so fast, we felt like we were flying.”

  Usually, I told you more about our horses or the wonderful fruits that grew in the orchard, but that evening I changed the story and added a new part. “One day, an angry demon cast a spell over our kingdom. Plants withered, birds stopped singing, and the stream dried up.

  “The demon tried to catch us, but we ran away and found a place—this new place where he can’t find us.

  “We won’t stay here forever. When we’re older and stronger, we’ll leave. Together, we’ll fight the demon, break his curse, and return to our lost kingdom, where we’ll be princesses again. Viji and Rukku,” I finished. “Always together.”

  “Viji and Rukku together?” you asked.

  “Always.”

  “Viji and Rukku,” you repeated. “Always together.”

  We had no roof or walls to keep us safe, and that probably should have worried me more, but you seemed content.
>
  You pointed at the sky. “Look, Viji.”

  “No roof means we get the best view of the pretty stars, right, Rukku?” I said.

  “Pretty,” you agreed.

  We lay shoulder to shoulder and watched the stars sparkle, while Kutti slept beside us. Your eyes sparkled, too, and the light inside them pierced through my fog of worry.

  9

  LAUGHTER

  A cool breeze rose from the river, waking me and riffling the edges of my skirt. My stomach growled like a starving tiger. At home, the two of us would have been up, making breakfast. We’d been poor, but at least we always had something to eat.

  When you woke, I knew you would be hungry, too. Maybe we could go to the teashop and ask if we could work there again.

  Kutti woke with a snort. He snuffled at your face until you sat up.

  “Amma?” you murmured.

  “Just us, remember?”

  “Go home now, Viji?”

  “We live here now, Rukku. Our own place, like in our story.”

  “Palace?”

  “Kind of. We rule ourselves here, so it’s as good as being princesses.”

  You lifted your head high and surveyed the ruined bridge like a princess. Down by the riverbank, people were bathing. I spotted the boys by the river’s edge.

  From our bundle, I grabbed a change of clothes and our toiletries, towels, and water bottle. We walked down to the water with Kutti at our heels.

  Up close the river was not beautiful. It looked more gray than silver.

  We watched Arul dive off a rock, his heels kicking an old cardboard carton that bobbed past. With a joyful yip, Kutti splashed in, then ran back out to greet Muthu, who was still standing on the rock.

  Muthu laughed as Kutti shook his coat, sending a shower of droplets into Muthu’s face. “Now I don’t need to wash,” he said. “What a thoughtful dog you are.”

  “Good dog,” you agreed. “Rukku’s dog.”

  “Want to come for a swim?” Muthu grinned at you. “The water’s nice and cool.”

  “No,” I said. “Rukku can’t swim.”

  “Let her have some fun!” Arul was wading to the shore. “We won’t take her where it’s deep.”

  Muthu cupped some water and let it dribble down your back. You giggled and slid into the river, with all your clothes on.

  “Don’t worry,” Arul said. “We’ll see that she’s safe.”

  You splashed one another for a while, ignoring the litter that floated by. Kutti swam around you in circles.

  If you hadn’t been enjoying yourself so much, I would probably have dragged you out. Part of me was irritated that you’d gone right ahead to bathe with the boys without me. But then, it was the first time I’d seen you make friends so easily. It was a nice change after years of meeting kids who hadn’t been kind or warm to either of us—except for Subbu, whom Arul resembled a little.

  “Want some soap?” I asked the boys.

  “None for me,” Muthu said. “I smell good enough already!” But Arul thanked me, and I waded into the water, and we started washing ourselves and the clothes we were wearing.

  When we got out of the water, I gave the boys one of our towels, and Arul accepted it gratefully, though Muthu said he preferred to dry off in the sun.

  Behind a bush, you and I peeled off our clothes and changed into the dry skirts and blouses I’d brought. With our fingers, we scrubbed tooth powder on our teeth and rinsed it off with the last of the water left in our plastic bottle.

  * * *

  • • •

  Back at the bridge, I wrung out our wet clothes and towels, and weighted them down with stones to dry in the sun.

  “Hungry,” you announced.

  “Sorry,” I said. “Don’t have anything. We’ll go find something.”

  “No banana?”

  “No, sorry.”

  “Papaya?” you suggested.

  “No.”

  “Guava?”

  “No. No pomegranate, no jackfruit, no oranges, no sapotes, no sweet limes. No nothing.”

  “No, no, no,” you repeated, faster, louder, and more annoyed each time. “No, no, no!”

  “No, no, no,” Muthu joined in.

  You stopped and stared at him.

  “Let’s sing together, Rukku,” he said. “No-no-nooo!”

  Kutti lifted his nose and let out a musical howl. “Wooo.”

  “Nooo!” You laughed and clapped your hands. “Nooo—nooo—nooo.”

  I’d seen you laugh before, but never quite like this. This was the first time you’d broken into a laugh halfway through a tantrum. And the first time you laughed without hiding your mouth behind your hands, as if you were scared to be happy.

  Now you threw back your head the way Muthu was doing. And as the three of you howled away, like a pack of jackals, hungry and homeless though we were, I felt I’d done the right thing by leaving.

  10

  UNWELCOME

  The city was waking up as we walked toward the teashop. Women were busy with their everyday routines, drawing kolams to decorate the ground before their houses.

  At one home, you stood entranced as a woman showed a girl how to let rice flour fall evenly through her fingers to make the patterns with smooth white lines.

  The teashop man was pouring frothy glasses of chai when we arrived. You wanted to walk right back to the kitchen, but I stood waiting for the man to notice me. If we showed him what polite, hardworking girls we were, surely he’d let us work for him again. Maybe pay us money this time.

  “Go away!” he shouted.

  I looked behind us to see whom he was shooing.

  “You!” he yelled. “Get that dog away from my shop!”

  “It’s a good dog . . .” I began, but the man shook his fist at us.

  Kutti growled. I picked him up and held his squirming body tight.

  “Aunty!” you cried.

  Sure enough, Teashop Aunty had opened the kitchen door a crack. She beckoned.

  We took the long way around the shop, and I set Kutti down. He settled his head on his forepaws and closed his eyes.

  Aunty let us in the back door with a slightly frightened smile. “You said Rukku liked beads?”

  My irritation at her asking me instead of you vanished when she thrust a bulging bag into my hands. Inside the bag was a beautiful collection of jewel-toned beads, as well as some neatly knotted bundles of twine.

  “Thanks,” I breathed. “Look what Aunty gave us, Rukku.”

  You were as dazzled by the rainbow of color as I was. You settled down on the floor of the shack at once and started making a necklace.

  “Viji, if you can watch the stove, maybe I could quickly show your sister some bead tricks?”

  “Of course, Aunty.”

  She sat with you, showing you ways to tie pretty knots and braid strands together. Every now and then, she shot a worried look at the door, but the teashop man didn’t bother us.

  You were so happy, I felt reluctant to leave, but after a while, my worry took over, and I told you we had to go find a job.

  I refilled our water bottle, and Teashop Aunty pressed a plastic bag with bananas and vadais into my hands.

  “No, Aunty, you already gave us too much.”

  “Don’t argue with your elders.” She insisted on giving me something else—a raincoat. “Belonged to my daughter.” Her eyes flickered across the picture of the young girl next to the picture of the Goddess. “Gave away most of her things when she died, but this was new—and—I—just couldn’t part with it until now.”

  “Thanks, Aunty.” I tried to squeeze all my gratitude into those two small words.

  As we left, Teashop Aunty walked outside with us. “Try your luck there—it’s where the rich people live.” She pointed at a distant temple tower r
ising above the forest of buildings.

  “Maybe someone will want a maid,” she said. “But don’t be too trusting. The world’s not always a kind place for two poor girls like you.”

  * * *

  • • •

  The back alley wasn’t as deserted as it had been the day before. A girl dressed in rags pawed at the hem of my skirt as we walked by.

  “Give me something,” she whined. “I have to look after my brother. See him?” She gestured at a small boy—stark naked—who was sleeping behind her.

  Had they been runaways, too?

  “Kaasu kudunga, akka,” she wailed. Give me some coins, sister.

  “We don’t have any money,” I said. It was almost true.

  “Money.” You patted the money pouch at my waist.

  I shouldn’t have lied. You never did.

  “We have no money to spare, Rukku.”

  Your eyes welled up as you gazed into the girl’s tearstained face.

  “Okay, okay.” I untied the drawstrings, but before I could take a coin from the pouch, the girl’s bony fingers clamped tight on it, and she yanked it out of my grasp. “No! That’s everything we have!”

  The girl scampered out of reach, her bare heels disappearing as she turned a corner, her brother forgotten.

  Kutti yipped and darted after her, but I called him back.

  Even if I’d felt less tired, I couldn’t have chased a girl with such a pitiful voice and such haunting eyes. And besides, our money wouldn’t have lasted much longer. We needed a job.

  I looked for work in a few of the tiny shops we passed on our way to the temple—roadside shacks selling brightly colored clothes and cheap saris, fruit stalls humming with flies, a fragrant flower shop near the temple where two little girls sat weaving garlands of jasmine.

  I saw more people that one day than I’d seen our whole lives. But nobody noticed us.

  We were in plain sight.

  But we were invisible.