The Bridge Home

by Padma Venkatraman

  “You three stay here,” Arul said. “I’ll work alone today.”

  “One person can’t make enough to feed four mouths even on a good day,” I said. “I’ll go.”

  I’d never left you with anyone else before, but we had no choice. Muthu was shivering. He definitely needed rest.

  “What, Akka?” Muthu said. “You’re missing the fresh air around the dumps so much, you want to work today?”

  I forced a smile. “When Rukku’s better, we’ll start up the necklace business again, and then we’ll make enough money so we can take a holiday and both of you can just play together for a whole week.”

  “No, no, Akka.” Muthu grinned weakly at me. “If you kept me from working that long, I’d fall ill from shock.”

  Arul’s face was too grimly set to smile.

  * * *

  • • •

  Arul led me to a lot between two tumbledown houses where people had thrown trash after the holiday. Gullies of water ran down the sides of the enormous garbage pile, into an ocean of water that looked and smelled like raw sewage. Useless burned-out fireworks bobbed in it, but I spotted a precious bottle poking out of the trash mound.

  I bunched up my skirt, tied the hem around my waist, and waded through the water toward the bottle.

  A while later, Kumar and two of the boys in his gang joined us.

  “Where’s that brat Sridar so I can stay away from him?” I craned my neck, searching for the rude boy.

  “He’s gone,” Kumar said.

  “Gone?” I echoed. “Happy to hear it. Gone where?”

  “Dead,” Kumar said.

  “Dead! I—I thought—”

  “Thought he went on holiday?” Kumar gave a bitter laugh. “He got sick from something. Kept vomiting and then . . .”

  “I am so sorry.” I looked down at the gray sludge into which my feet had sunk. “I am really, really sorry.”

  “Don’t be.” Kumar churned the filthy water with his stick. “Kids die every day. You start feeling sorry, you’ll drown.”

  From what I’d seen of him, Sridar was selfish and mean. Still, he didn’t deserve to die so young. It shocked me that someone like us could be here one day—and dead the next.

  Arul put an arm around Kumar’s shoulder. For a long moment, they stood together, still as gravestones, any rivalry forgotten.

  Then they moved apart, and we went to work, trying to dredge out at least a few bottles or tins from the sea of sewage.

  32

  THE PRICE OF FREEDOM

  Thunder boomed. Purple rain clouds burst over us like rotting grapes.

  “You’d better see how Rukku and Muthu are doing,” Arul said. “I’ll sell what we’ve found.”

  Sheets of rain blinded me as I hurried to the graveyard. In spite of how brave you’d been with Kutti during Divali, I was scared I’d find you cowering with fear when I returned.

  What I found was even scarier.

  Your body was a tight knot. You lips twitched, but no sound escaped them. Your forehead was hot, and your hair was mangled with sweat.

  Kutti was pacing about restlessly, as if he understood you weren’t well and it upset him as much as it upset me.

  “Her fever’s worse, I think,” Muthu said. His own eyes still had a feverish glaze.

  “Rest. I’ll look after you both.”

  Muthu fell into an exhausted sleep.

  I dipped our towel in cool rainwater and squeezed it over your eyes, but your forehead stayed burning hot. I dripped water past your lips—every time I could. I lost track of how many desperate hours went by.

  The wind picked up. It tore away the plastic tablecloth we’d used as a door and sent it flapping like a bat across the dark graveyard. Kutti and I raced after it. I pinned it down, but only after it was nearly torn in two. Struggling against the wind and lashing rain, I tied the ragged pieces as best I could across the gap, but everything inside was already wet. A rash had broken out on your back, making your skin as rough as sandpaper, and you moaned every now and then.

  Muthu slept on, not waking even when Arul staggered into our storm-ravaged shelter without money and with hardly any more food.

  “I ran into a nasty gang,” he said. “They stole our stuff and shoved me into a gutter. But thankfully they didn’t beat me up.”

  All we had for dinner was what he’d been able to scrounge out of the garbage: a tin of some yellow-green slop, two rotting bananas, and some moldy rotis. But hunger was clawing so fiercely at my stomach that I shut my eyes, scooped up a handful of the swill, and stuck it in my mouth.

  “Let’s save the fruit for Rukku and Muthu,” Arul suggested.

  I scraped off the green fuzz growing on a roti. We ate in silence, broken only by your labored breaths and the rainstorm lashing the banyan’s branches.

  Our bellies were empty, but I was used to that. Now I also felt empty of hope.

  * * *

  • • •

  I hardly slept, and when dawn came, I knew I needed to make a plan.

  Somehow, I had to find a way to get money. I needed to buy you good food, medicine for your fever, and things to shore up our shelter and make it comfortable.

  A thought entered my mind as I stroked Kutti. I pushed it away. But it returned.

  I didn’t want to. I had no right to. I couldn’t do it.

  I could.

  I had to.

  * * *

  • • •

  While you three continued to sleep, I led Kutti out of the graveyard. We walked toward the part of town where the rich girl lived.

  My feet felt heavy as sacks full of scrap metal. And it wasn’t just my feet that dragged. It was like my mind was dragging my heart along, and it and the rest of my body didn’t want to come.

  When I reached the gate with Goddess Lakshmi’s name on it, I knelt on the wet sidewalk and hugged Kutti close. “Kutti, I have to help my sister and Muthu. This is the only way. Do you understand?”

  He stared straight into my eyes. His tail didn’t wag.

  “I’m sorry, Kutti. I’m really, really sorry.”

  I’m not sure how long I clung to him, rubbing my forehead against his rain-plastered neck and breathing the scent of his wet fur. He nudged me with his warm nose, like he wanted to comfort me, but it only made me hurt worse.

  Somehow, I forced myself to clang on the gate.

  The gardener opened it. “You again? What do you want?”

  “I’m here to sell our dog,” I said.

  “Can’t wake them at the crack of dawn,” he grumbled, but I pushed past him, strode down the drive, and rapped hard on the front door.

  A maid opened it and would have slammed the door in my face, except that the mother of the girl was close behind.

  “Yes?” the mother said.

  “Kutti—our dog,” I said. “I’m here to sell him. Two thousand rupees, you told me.”

  “Praba will be thrilled. She really fell in love with him.”

  I knelt and pressed my face against Kutti’s warm neck one last time.

  “Go in, Kutti.” Gently, I pushed him. “This is your new home.”

  He cocked his head, like you did when you were listening hard. I knew he was trying to understand.

  “You’re a smart dog, Kutti. A good dog. We have to give you away, though. For Rukku. Understand?”

  He whined. I gave him another gentle shove.

  “You’ll like this place. Stay here.”

  The mother rustled off and returned with money and a package. “Here’s money and some food. And he’ll be happy here, I promise,” she said.

  My eyes were blinded with tears, and I couldn’t thank her.

  Without saying another word, I turned around and walked away.

  Kutti tried to follow. I heard him yowl, heard his toes
clip-clopping on the floor as he struggled to break free before the door slammed behind me.

  33

  LIES

  The pharmacist sold me blister packs of pills to soothe pain, bring down fever, and help you sleep.

  “You need to see a doctor if someone in your family’s got a fever,” he warned. “There’s a bad illness going around.”

  He was trying to be kind, I could tell. I almost asked him if he knew a good doctor or a good hospital.

  Then I remembered how Amma had shielded you from doctors and hospitals. I hadn’t come so far with you to risk having strangers snatch you away and lock you in an institution forever.

  * * *

  • • •

  On the way to the graveyard, I stopped to buy two new tarps, one to lay across our tent so we could keep dry again and another for a better door. Praba’s mother had given us perfectly good bananas and bags of banana chips, but from a nearby stall, I bought a doll with bright black hair you could comb. Then, as I hurried back, I dreamed of how I’d spend the rest of our money later, on things that would make our life more comfortable, starting with a foam mattress for you and Muthu, and new books for me to read to everyone.

  Arul was looking for me when I returned.

  “I was worried sick!” Arul scolded. “What happened?”

  “Kutti’s gone.” I thrust all the remaining money into his hands.

  “You—sold . . .” Arul didn’t seem to be able to finish the sentence.

  At least I didn’t have to explain.

  “Rukku won’t really mind,” I tried to convince myself. “She had a doll she used to love, so I got her this, see . . .”

  Arul didn’t say anything. He didn’t frown and didn’t smile either.

  “Rukku?” I shook you gently. “I have medicine. And fresh bananas.” I waved a bright yellow one under your nose.

  You were unusually docile, swallowing the medicine without any argument.

  “Kutti?” Your eyes searched the tent.

  “Kutti’s gone,” I said.

  “Gone?” you echoed.

  “Who’s gone?” Muthu opened his eyelids slowly and sat up.

  “Kutti left.” I had thought of saying Kutti was run over by a truck, but what if Muthu asked to bury the body?

  “Can’t be,” Muthu protested. “He’s never run off before.”

  “Maybe he just didn’t like living here in the graveyard.” The more I said, the less convincing my lie sounded. “He’s gone, I’m telling you. Gone.”

  “Dogs don’t just go away,” Muthu said.

  “How do you know? You’ve had dogs before, or what?”

  “He loved us.” Muthu’s confidence was unshakable.

  “He’s just a dog, not a human being! Even humans leave people they love!”

  “Dogs are loyal,” Muthu said.

  “Maybe Kutti wanted a better life, so he left.”

  For the first time since you’d fallen ill, you seemed to be following a conversation. I felt triumphant, as if the medicine was already working, although I knew no medicine worked right away.

  “Enough about Kutti. I bought medicine for you both. Rukku’s had hers. Now you.”

  “Thanks, Akka,” Muthu whispered. “My head hurts. And my joints and my bones and even behind my eyes. I’m hurting all over.”

  “You’ll be better tomorrow,” Arul said. “Once the medicine starts working.”

  I was sure I’d done the right thing until you murmured, “Kutti left.”

  The quiet acceptance in your tone jolted me, and I wondered if my lie about Kutti not loving us enough to stay had hurt you worse than if I’d pretended he’d died.

  It sounded like you’d given up altogether. On him, on me, on everything.

  34

  THE COURAGE TO TRUST

  As the day wore on, I told myself your fever was coming down, that the medicines were allowing you to sleep more deeply, that you’d be better when you woke.

  But that night, I couldn’t pretend anymore. We couldn’t deny you were worse.

  Although we had better food than ever, I couldn’t get you to eat or drink. I couldn’t even get you to open your eyes.

  I drew your head onto my lap and stroked your brow. I called your name.

  You didn’t respond at all.

  “It’s not true, Rukku,” I confessed in my desperation. “I sold Kutti, even though he was more yours than mine. I’m so sorry. I only wanted to save you, Rukku. Get better. Please.”

  By then, I don’t think you could hear me.

  “Maybe we should light a candle in church for them?” Arul suggested.

  “Or maybe we should ask the woman we met in church for help,” I said.

  Arul wound your new doll’s hair around one of his wrists like a handcuff.

  “I don’t see any other way, Arul.”

  “But don’t you remember what Muthu said?”

  “What would you rather do? Watch them—watch them . . .” I couldn’t finish the sentence.

  When I think of it now, it seems so clear, so simple that I should have gone straight to Celina Aunty once your fever spiked. But I was so terribly confused, Rukku.

  Only a few adults had ever really helped us. And this was more than just seeking help. This was trusting her—a stranger—completely.

  “Well, she was in church and did seem kind,” Arul said softly, as if to convince himself this was the right thing to do.

  “Let’s go.” I repeated the address that I remembered on the card.

  “Not too far.” Arul gathered your limp body in his arms. “Can you help Muthu get there?”

  Muthu’s lids drooped when I woke him. He didn’t seem to know or care what was happening, because without argument, he let me slide an arm beneath his shoulders and drag him along, half asleep.

  Through needles of rain, we staggered toward the home for children that Muthu had been so sure was a kind of jail. Frayed yellow threads of dawn were trailing through the sky when we finally reached the gate.

  It was locked.

  “Help!” I shook it until it jangled loudly, and a woman came out.

  Celina Aunty.

  35

  HOSPITAL

  “Can you help my sister?” I asked Celina Aunty. I thrust our money into her hands. “We can pay.”

  “Of course I’ll help.” Celina Aunty took the money. “And I’ll keep this safe for you.”

  “I’m not coming,” Arul muttered.

  “Your choice.” Celina Aunty took Rukku’s limp body from Arul. “We don’t force anyone to live here.”

  Inside, Celina Aunty laid Rukku down on a sofa and motioned for me to set Muthu down on another. “I have to call a doctor. They need to go to a hospital.”

  “Promise you won’t lock my sister away?” The old fear surged inside me again.

  “I’d never do that.”

  Celina Aunty spoke to a doctor on the phone and waited with me until she came. The doctor took your temperature and listened to your chest. You didn’t shrink from her gentle touch and kind voice.

  She examined Muthu next, but I only had eyes for you.

  Dr. Sumitra asked me lots of questions: “Did you use mosquito nets?” “Did you boil the water before you drank it?” “What medication did you try to give her?” “How much?” “How long has her brow felt so hot?”

  As best I could, I answered those questions.

  When I asked the only question that mattered to me—“Will my sister be okay?”—Dr. Sumitra didn’t reply.

  She left to join Celina Aunty in the next room, where they spoke in hushed tones. I strained my ears but couldn’t catch what they were saying.

  In that room where you were lying, a cross hung on the wall above the sofa, like the one we’d seen in church. Looking at Yesu on the cross,
I said the prayer Arul had taught me. I said every prayer Amma had sung that I could remember. I prayed silently, words echoing in my head louder than anything I’d ever spoken.

  Wherever you are, I begged, whoever you are, please, let Rukku get better.

  * * *

  • • •

  It must only have been a few minutes later that men came and carried you and Muthu into an ambulance. Celina Aunty and I got in. You were both in such a stupor that neither the flashing lights nor the sirens seemed to upset you.

  The men carried the two of you into a hospital. Silent as a shadow, I followed Celina Aunty while she talked to people and filled out forms, and the men wheeled you both out of sight.

  A strangely familiar scent rose from the floor. After all those days of having my nose filled with the scents of rubbish, it took me time to recognize the burning scent of the acrid liquid Amma used to clean our bathroom every once in a while.

  Celina Aunty tried to explain. “Dr. Sumitra thinks they may have dengue fever. It’s carried by mosquitoes.”

  “They’ll get better, right?”

  “I hope so, Viji. Most people do, but . . .” Her eyes got shiny like she was about to cry.

  She clutched my hand until a nurse came and led us through the hospital to peek into the overcrowded ward where you were. You and Muthu lay in beds near one another. You were each hooked up to a contraption that dripped medicine and food and water into your veins, Celina Aunty explained.

  “They’ll be well looked after,” she promised.

  She didn’t promise you’d get better.

  * * *

  • • •

  I wanted to stay with you, but Celina Aunty insisted the best thing I could do was try to get some sleep and make sure I didn’t fall ill, too.

  Back at the home, she asked questions about us.