The Bridge Home

by Padma Venkatraman

  You could have been among them. You could have been here, at this school, learning from teachers who’d pay proper attention to you. A silent flood of tears rushed down my cheeks.

  No one seemed to notice I was crying, except the girl with blocks, who marched over to me.

  “Don’t cry,” she commanded. “Come and play with me.”

  “Thanks,” I said to her, trying to swallow my sobs and hold my voice steady. “I’ll come and play for a bit.”

  “Why are you thanking me?” Her forehead wrinkled in confusion. “I didn’t give you anything.”

  “I was sad. You made me feel better.”

  “I made you better?” Her face glowed like a moon, and her plump cheeks dimpled. “I made her better,” she announced to Dhanam Aunty. “Who is she, anyway?”

  “This is Viji,” Celina Aunty said.

  “I’m Lalitha. Come.” Lalitha took me by the hand and led me to a shelf full of painting supplies.

  “Let’s paint,” she decided. “We must put newspaper on the floor so it doesn’t get messy.”

  The two of us spread out the paper, and we started working. At least, I did. Lalitha selected a brush and chewed on its end thoughtfully.

  I dipped my brush in the paint and tried to draw a yellow circle for the sun. Lalitha was watching, which made me nervous, because I wasn’t the best painter.

  The lines I drew for the sun’s rays came out pretty wobbly. I dropped a bit of blue paint on the bottom by accident, so I smeared it and made a river. Across it, I painted a bridge. On the bridge I painted four stick figures.

  “What’s that?” Lalitha put her finger on one of the figures.

  “A person,” I said.

  “You are a person. I am a person.” She wagged her finger at me. “That is not a person.”

  “It’s the best I can do. What are you going to paint?”

  “I can paint well,” Lalitha said. “Watch.” She swished her brush around on the paper, making a great yellow blob in the top right corner.

  “Is that the sun?” I asked.

  “No, Viji. The sun is outside. This is just a big yellow dot.”

  “Right.” I smiled.

  So we painted dots and lines and all kinds of shapes. We made a mess and had just as much fun cleaning up, skating on the wet floor after we’d mopped.

  “That was the best painting class ever,” I told Lalitha when it was time for me to leave. “Thanks.”

  “Come back,” she said. “I’ll teach you some more.”

  * * *

  • • •

  On the way home, I asked Celina Aunty, “Can I go back there again? Maybe work at the school?”

  “Sure,” Celina Aunty said. “I may be able to arrange for you to assist the teachers when they need an extra hand. Maybe help with reading or writing or art? And maybe someday you could even teach there.”

  Since you’d gone, I hadn’t given a thought to my dream of becoming a teacher. Celina Aunty’s words made my dream glimmer again. Faint and far away, but not lost.

  41

  BRIDGES

  “Let’s go for a walk,” Arul said when he returned from his lessons at the carpentry shop that afternoon.

  “Can’t.” Muthu scowled. “I have to write I won’t be rude to my teachers one hundred times.”

  “Why?” Arul said. “What did you do?”

  “This morning, Priya Aunty said, if a fruit vendor asks us for twenty rupees and we give him a fifty-rupee note, what would we have left? And I said it was a silly question, because if a vendor asks us for twenty, I wouldn’t give him fifty, I’d bargain him down, not give more than he asks! And she got mad, but I said it was just as important to learn how to bargain as it was to learn subtraction. All the other kids agreed with me, but that only made her madder, and she gave me extra homework.”

  Arul started lecturing Muthu on staying out of trouble, but I grinned at Muthu. It was good to know he was getting his spark back.

  * * *

  • • •

  When I recognized where Arul was heading, I stopped, but he wouldn’t let me turn around.

  Soon, we arrived at the fancy house where Kutti lived. He was out in the yard.

  Kutti’s coat shone with cleanliness, sparkling in the sunshine like a silk sari. We watched him through the gate, playing with the girl. The gardener was nowhere to be seen.

  Praba threw a ball, and he leaped and caught it midair. She patted him, and he licked her hand, looking at her the way he used to look at you.

  “What’s the point of this trip?” I said to Arul. “To show me Kutti doesn’t miss Rukku anymore?”

  Before I could stomp off in a huff, Kutti raised his head and galloped toward the gate, barking madly, his tail wagging so fast, it almost disappeared from view.

  Praba ran after him, and when she saw us, she swung the gate open. Kutti bounded over, placed his paws on my knees, and pushed me off balance. He’d grown so much larger and stronger. We collapsed together, his tail thumping me.

  “Viji!” The girl surprised me by remembering my name. “You don’t look nearly as scruffy as you did last time.” She sounded disappointed. “What happened?”

  “Changed my line of work,” I said.

  “Where’s Rukku?” she said.

  “Couldn’t come.” I buried my face in Kutti’s fur. He smelled clean and fresh.

  “Want to see the bed I made for Kutti in my room?” Praba asked. “I give him dog biscuits every day, and I wash him once a week with special dog shampoo—”

  “Dog shampoo?” They not only had special biscuits for dogs, but even special shampoo?

  “Come on,” she said. “I’ll show you.”

  “We don’t have time now,” I said, because I was afraid her mother might not want me in her house, even though she was kind and I was a lot cleaner than I had been. And it was enough to see that Kutti was doing well.

  Kutti put a paw on my foot, like he was telling me to stay. But I scratched Kutti behind the ears and got up.

  “Go, Kutti,” I said. “Go on home.”

  “When will you visit again?” Praba asked.

  “Sometime,” Arul said. “Sure.”

  As we walked away, Kutti gave a little whine, but he didn’t try to follow. He knew where he belonged now.

  “I thought you would like to see how happy Kutti is,” Arul said.

  “You’ve visited him before?” I asked.

  “Just once,” Arul said. “Long enough to show me two things, Viji. That he still loves us. But love doesn’t stop him from living and moving forward, because that’s how life moves.”

  * * *

  • • •

  On the way back, we visited our bridge.

  We looked for the spot where we’d pitched our tents, but we couldn’t tell the exact place. A cool breeze stirred the river as the sun sank down in the sky.

  “We should get going,” Arul said.

  “Just a bit longer,” I said. Part of me felt that if you could still talk to me, this was the place where I’d hear your voice loud and clear—here on this bridge, which was the closest we’d had to a happy home.

  I whispered your name, again and again, but you never replied.

  Or maybe I just didn’t hear. All I heard was the river slapping against the bank endlessly.

  “It’s getting really late,” Arul said. “Come on.”

  * * *

  • • •

  Celina Aunty and Muthu were standing in the front yard, peering up and down the street, into the gloom. Muthu waved wildly as soon as he spotted us returning, and Celina Aunty practically ran to the gate to let us in.

  “Thank goodness you’re here at last, ” she said. “What kept you out so long?”

  “Told you they’d be fine, Aunty,” Muthu said. “Why wer
e you so worried? Because this is the first time Akka and Arul have ever been out on their own in the dark without me, or something?”

  “That must be it.” She tousled his hair and smiled at us. “But please, next time you want to stay out late, warn me so I don’t get scared?”

  I promised I would.

  And I thought about Celina Aunty and Muthu’s concern. It felt good to see them feeling happy that we were back safe.

  For the first time since we’d left the bridge, I had the feeling I’d come home.

  42

  PAST AND PRESENT

  After assembly this morning, Celina Aunty beckoned to me to come see her.

  “Surely you can’t be in trouble again,” Arul whispered.

  “You said the prayers today.” Muthu rushed to defend me. “I saw. I’ll tell them, Akka.”

  “Thanks, Muthu.” I ruffled his hair. “I promise I’ll let you know if I need your help.”

  I followed Celina Aunty into her office.

  “Sorry to keep you from your class, but it’s your lessons I want to discuss with you.” She played with a pen on her desk. “We have a good place here—”

  “A great place,” I said.

  “Glad to hear you say that, Viji. I’m happy to see how you have adjusted. But I’ve been thinking about where you need to be.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Our teachers aren’t used to teaching children as old as you. Or as good at writing and reading as you are. There are larger schools, where you would have greater opportunities. Better facilities.”

  “You want me to leave?”

  “That’s not what I’m saying. This can still be your home, Viji, and you can visit Muthu and the rest of us anytime. But there’s a good boarding school where some of our children have gone before. I spoke to the head, and she’d welcome you.”

  “I haven’t said I’ll go.”

  “No.” She looked me in the eye. “But if you’re serious about teaching at a school someday, you’ll need to study a lot more and get much better training than we can give you here. Just think it over, okay?”

  It’s so strange, Rukku. Just when I start thinking of this as my home, Celina Aunty decides I need to move. On and out of here. I know I need to welcome the chance Celina Aunty is offering me.

  Except I don’t want to go. You were taken from me, and I’m not ready to take myself away from the two best friends I have left.

  Not yet.

  * * *

  • • •

  That evening, Arul and I sat on the bench, watching Muthu chase the little kids, who cackled and screeched. It was good to see him in such high spirits again and to hear him hooting with laughter.

  When he came over and joined us, I started telling them about my conversation with Celina Aunty. “She wants to send me to a school—”

  “We are at school,” Muthu said.

  “A bigger school,” I said, and explained her offer.

  “Super!” Arul thumped me on the back.

  “Glad you’re so thrilled by the thought of me leaving,” I said, watching the kids running about. “But I don’t want to go.”

  “I don’t want you to go either,” Muthu said. “Stay here, Akka. Never mind what Arul says.”

  “Don’t be silly.” Arul’s smile left his face, and he got all serious. “She should go. Go and do something she’s been dreaming about.”

  “If I leave, who’d look after Muthu?” I asked.

  “I don’t need anyone looking after me.” Muthu pushed his lip out so far, it looked in danger of falling off his face. “I’ll be okay if you go, but I won’t like it.”

  “I won’t like it at the other school either,” I said. “They’ll all probably have nicer dresses. And lots of—”

  “You’ll always have nicer friends,” Arul interrupted. “And nicer family—you’ll always have us.”

  I couldn’t argue with that. I put an arm around each of them and drew them closer.

  43

  OUR FATHER

  The next morning I got a visit from our father.

  Definitely not the one in heaven.

  “How did he know where to find me?” I asked Celina Aunty when she told me he was here to see me. And then the answer came to me. “My letter.”

  “Probably,” Celina Aunty said. “You don’t have to see him unless you want to.”

  “I’ll see him,” I said.

  “Do you want me—or someone else—to stay with you?”

  “I’m not scared.” If I didn’t meet him face-to-face, I’d be afraid he’d try to track me down some other day, when I wasn’t in such a safe place. “I’ll meet him on my own.”

  “As you wish.” Celina Aunty motioned at the room where he was waiting. “We won’t let him take you away by force. But of course, if you decide you want to leave, that’s up to you.”

  Head high, neck maybe a little too stiff, I strode in like a princess. “What do you want?” I said to Appa.

  He held out a package, a gift, like he thought it was enough to win me over. I looked at the dark hair sprouting in bushes along his fingers. I could feel his hand coming down across my cheek, whip-fast, leather tough.

  “I don’t want it,” I said. “I don’t want anything from you.”

  His eyes glittered with anger. “You’re my daughter,” he said. “Mine. I can take the two of you home whether you want to or not.”

  “You can’t,” I said. “Not the two of us. Rukku’s dead.”

  “What?” He stared and then whispered, “You’re lying.”

  “No,” I said. “I wouldn’t lie about something like that!”

  A strange sound came from him, a kind of growl that was anger and pain, mixed up. His hand actually trembled. He let the package flop onto Celina Aunty’s desk.

  Maybe all that Celina Aunty and Arul had said about God and Yesu had made some kind of difference, because all of a sudden, I felt sorry for him, the way he stooped, his arms hanging limp.

  On the street, I’d seen dogs fighting. Snarling. Ripping at one another. Until one gave up and tucked its tail between its legs in surrender. That was what Appa reminded me of with his head hanging and his chin almost touching his chest.

  Seeing him standing that way, I knew I was larger than he would ever be. For his pitiful sake, I ripped open the package he’d brought. Inside, there were two things. A hand-carved wooden pendant. And a hand-carved doll, just like Marapachi.

  “You—you made Rukku a new doll?” I couldn’t believe it, but there she was, in my hands, Marapachi’s twin. He must have made the old one, too, I realized.

  “Yes. I made it for her.” He knelt and put his hands together. “Come home. Please. Give me another chance. I’ll never, never, never hurt you again.”

  He shook with sobs, and I put a hand on his shoulder.

  Rivers of tears coursed down, crooked, across his cheeks, his stubble-covered chin.

  A flash flood of forgiveness rose in my chest. It was a strange kind of forgiveness, mixed with desperate pity and hope. A flood that threatened to drown me if I didn’t fight it.

  At last, I understood how Amma felt—why she gave in every time he said he was sorry. Understood her eagerness to piece together her shattered image of him. Her need to keep hoping things would get better somehow. She must have felt just as sorry for him as I felt when I saw him kneeling on the ground.

  Because at that moment, he truly meant it. He really wanted to be a better man.

  I almost did what Amma would have done. I almost gave up the freedom and the future I could have.

  That’s when I heard your voice, Rukku.

  No, you said. Stay, Viji.

  Your voice was like the beam of a lighthouse, cutting right through my fog of pity.

  “No.” My voice was calm. My whole body was calm
. “This is home now.”

  “Don’t be angry. I’ll give you anything, anything—”

  “My future is here, Appa.”

  His knuckles clenched and then unclenched.

  “Tell Amma I love her. And don’t ever, ever lay a finger on her again.”

  “Yes.” He bowed his head. “And I’ll come again to visit you.”

  “Bring her,” I said. “Bring her to visit me.”

  “I promise,” he said.

  For the first time in what felt like forever, the touch of his rough hand was gentle on my chin. He held it, held my gaze.

  Then he let go and walked out the door, his steps measured, his footfall softened.

  I hope he’ll keep his promise. But even if he doesn’t, his visit left me feeling better.

  He took away some of my anger, I think, anger that had been pressing down on my chest. Now that I had let my anger go, it felt like my heart had more room.

  * * *

  • • •

  After Appa left, I marched up to Celina Aunty, who was waiting anxiously to hear how it all had gone.

  “You know that boarding school for girls, the one you wanted to send me to?” I said. “I’ll go.”

  “Yes!” She slammed a fist into her palm. “That’s wonderful. You’ll be so happy there. I’m so proud of you.”

  Then the two of us just sat there and smiled and smiled at each other.

  * * *

  • • •

  At dinner, I told Arul and Muthu about Appa’s visit and how much better I’d behaved than I’d ever thought I could.

  “There’s hope for you yet,” Arul said. “Yesu is getting through.”

  “No,” I said. “It was Rukku’s voice I heard in my head, not Yesu’s.”

  “Not in your head,” Arul said. “You heard her voice in your heart.”