Boys without Names (4 page)

I follow him with the cotton bag. When the train stops, there are people waiting to get on the train, and they charge forward. “
Thahro
, wait,” Card-Man shouts at them. Baba gets down first, then Aai. Card-Man picks up Naren and Sita and hands them to Baba. He helps me pass the luggage down to Baba. Finally, I get off. Some people have wiggled past me and others are clamoring up the steps. I check to make sure we have everything.

On the platform a sea of people surround us. Aai holds Naren's and Sita's hands, and we are all wide-eyed. Unlike the small, empty station near our dusty village, Thane station is filled with moving people—women dressed in colorful saris and dresses, men running to catch the train, vendors shouting their wares. The smell of fried food and hot tea mixes in the air with Marathi, Hindi, and many other languages.

A group of women dressed in expensive clothes walk past us. They're wearing gold necklaces and bangles. A young girl has a bag on a wheel. Sometimes I used to carry these kinds of bags in Matheran, but I could never
wheel them, because streets in Matheran are not even and smooth like this platform. There is a long bridge that passes from one side of the station to the other, spanning several platforms. The bridge is filled with pedestrians crossing in a hurry. We move to a side near a stall selling magazines and newspapers. I wonder if Jama has magazines and books at his home.

“You stay here. I'm going to find out how we get to Mumbai,” Baba says to us, and hurries off.

When I look up to thank Card-Man, he has disappeared. I peek through the window and wave at him to get his attention. There are many more people jammed in that compartment than before and it is hard to see him. Finally when he looks at me the train blows a whistle and moves forward. I shout, “Thank you, thank you!”

“Who are you shouting ‘thank you' to?” Naren asks.

“The man sitting next to us who bought us tea, helped us get off the train, and gave me a deck of cards to play with.”

“He gave you cards?” Naren's eyes sparkle. “If we meet him again I will say hello to him.”

I ruffle his hair. “
Khajoor!
In the city there are so many people you won't ever see him again.”

“Don't call me stupid.” He stomps his feet. “If he lives in Mumbai and we get there, we might see him. And when we do, I am going to talk to him.”

“You do that,” I say, just to shut him up.

“I will,” Naren says, folding his arms across his
chest. “You should too.”

“I'll do what I want to do.” I turn to Aai. “Do you see Baba?” I whisper.

She shakes her head.

Naren scans the platform. “What if Baba doesn't come back? What if he gets lost?” He tugs at my hand.

I look at Aai and we both burst out laughing. “Why are you laughing?” Naren asks.

“Because you think we will meet that stranger in this big city and you think we will lose our own baba because we don't see him at the moment.”

“It isn't funny,” Naren says.

“No.” Sita stomps her foot.

Aai kneels down and takes them both in her arms. “Your baba will be back any minute.” She takes out two pieces of rock sugar from a cloth pouch and gives one to each of them to suck on. I want one too, but if we had enough Aai would have given one to me. It is not fair being the oldest. I avoid meeting Aai's eyes because I don't want her to see that I am hurt.

And I don't want to see her eyes telling me that she is sorry.

S
lowly the platform begins to drain of people and Baba walks back to us. His face has this strange look, as if someone has promised him a singing bird and handed him a rusty cage. Aai, Baba, and I huddle together to figure out what we need to do.

“I don't know who to ask how to get to Jama's house. People here are all in a hurry,” Baba says.

“Let's get out of the station first,” Aai says.

I pick up the cloth bag; Baba picks up the ones with cooking utensils and bedding. Aai holds the twins' hands and we walk toward the exit.

Naren starts to go through the gate, but a ticket checker in a white uniform puts his hand out. “You should keep the tickets ready when you're going through the gate.”

Baba puts his bag down, sticks his hand in his back
pocket, and pulls out the tickets.

Outside the station, horns blare and the cars and rickshaws fly by. The air is heavy with the smell of petrol and thick with dust. I look up to see where the sun is, but all I see is a hazy light and above it a gray mass just hanging there.

I wonder how far we have to travel to get to Dadar.

Baba takes out a crumpled piece of paper with Jama's address. He shows it to a rickshaw driver. “Do you want a ride?” he asks Baba.

“No, I want to know how far this place is.”

Someone else gets in that rickshaw and the driver takes off without answering. Baba stares at the back of the rickshaw with wide eyes and open mouth.

We move to the other side, where yellow and black taxis are waiting. He hands the piece of paper to a driver. “Is it close by? Can we walk?” he asks, while the man reads the address.

“If you start walking now you will get there before sunrise,” the man answers. Baba's face turns dark as he takes a step backward. He seems to have shrunk since we got off the train. The man thinks this is a joke and laughs, exposing his brown, stained teeth. “Huh, huh, huh.”

So far, I haven't seen anything in the city I like.

“We're tired,” Sita cries.

“We're thirsty,” Naren pipes in.

“Wait for a few minutes with Aai until Gopal and I find someone who can help us,” Baba says.

Aai and the twins sit with our luggage on the station's footpath while Baba and I shuffle between people. The street we are on is crowded not only with pedestrians, but also with vendors and shoppers. Some vendors are selling from carts, others from baskets, and some have spread their things on the footpath, so it is a challenge to walk without bumping into someone or something.

It is way past noon, and the day has heated up. As we go through the market, we ask people how to get to Jama's place. One man wearing old-style
dhotar
and a long shirt doesn't even look at Baba when he shows the man Jama's address. He walks on. Others shake their heads after glancing at the address. It seems like everyone is in a hurry to get somewhere.

“There are people standing in a bus line across the street. We can ask them. At least they won't walk away,” I tell Baba.

Baba and I wait to cross the street but there is no break in the traffic. People get to the other side while we wait, and wait, and wait. Baba grips my hand tightly as a motorcycle zooms too close to us. I watch others to see how they cross the street. Some step up boldly and hold their hand out to stop the traffic, others dash when there is the slightest opening. A couple of times the traffic backs up and comes to a crawl. That is the time some people zigzag between cars, bicycles, motorcycles, trucks, buses, and rickshaws. No matter what, everyone gets to the other side, unlike Baba and I. If we want to live in the
city we must learn how to weave through the traffic.

I move a little forward when there is a break and pull Baba along. He is slow and by the time we go a bit forward, someone blares the horn so loud that Baba jumps back.

His grip on my hand tightens. “I don't think we can go across, Gopal.”

“If we can't cross this side street how are we going to tackle a big one? Come,” I say, inching closer to a group of people. A few more people stand behind us. When the people ahead of us begin to move forward, I pull Baba. “Hurry.”

“That was clever of you,” Baba says when we get to the other side.

He shows the piece of paper to a man waiting in the bus line. The man reminds me of Jama because he is wearing a new pair of sandals and a shiny watch. “Catch the bus number thirty from the Marathon Chowk. Remember to get off at Dadar,” he says.

“Where is that bus stop?” I ask.

He points with his hand. “Walk that way. It is hardly a ten-minute walk.”

A bus arrives and the people rush forward.

By the time I thank him he is on the bus.

I stand with my mouth agape. It doesn't matter if the passengers are fat or skinny, tall or short, old or young, men or women. They rush to board the bus, just like the other passengers did to board the train.

While we walk toward the Marathon Chowk, a number 30 bus passes by. Baba shakes his head. “Look at that, Gopal. The passengers are stuffed in there like
bajra
in a bag.”

“Maybe it wouldn't be so crowded early morning or late evening.”

“You might be right. We don't have enough money for all of us to travel, so I will go by bus and bring Jama here. I don't know how long it will take me to get to Dadar, find Jama's home, and return with him. It will be evening in a few hours, and I don't want to leave you in the dark alone.”

“That means you can't go until tomorrow. Where will we sleep tonight?”

Baba doesn't reply. I don't think it is going to be easy to find a place to sleep and he knows that. Baba reaches for my hand. “Let's cross back.” His grip tightens when we step onto the curb but he doesn't hesitate when I pull him across.

On the way back I notice the vegetable vendors selling summer squash and cabbages. My stomach growls a few times. I read the names of the stores out loud so Baba can also know what they say. Lakshmi Auto Parts, Sagar Electronics, Urban Tailors.

Close to the station, we stop at Deepak Food Store. In the front, the man has arranged glass bottles full of rainbow-colored hard candies. They must taste better than the plain rock sugar. My mouth waters. When Baba
asks the store owner if there is place for a traveler, he says, “Not if you don't have money.” His face is clean-shaven and his bald forehead reflects the light of a naked bulb that hangs above him.

Baba points across the street. “My family is waiting by the station and we have two other young children, so if you can tell us about a place where we can spend a night, I will pray to God to bless you.”

A man paying for groceries turns around. “You better pray for your own family. Looks like you can use it,” he says to Baba.

No one has insulted Baba like they have in this city. I want to stuff the man's mouth with rocks.

I am not the only one. The store owner takes the customer's money and as soon as the customer leaves, he says, “There're some people who think showing sympathy will cost them a rupee.” Then he asks me, “Have you eaten?”

I shake my head.

He tells us. “I'll give you some lentils and rice. That's all I can do.”

“We're grateful for that.” Baba's voice trembles.

“You're like thousands of others who pour into Mumbai and its suburbs looking for a better life,” the store owner says, opening up an old newspaper. “This place is big, but not big enough for everyone.”

“Thousands of others? I don't understand,” Baba says.

The store owner picks up a page of newspaper, tears
it in half, and rolls each into a cone. He fills one with rice and the other with lentils. “Yes. Every single day people from Bihar, Bengal, Gujarat, Karnataka, Assam, Madhya Pradesh, and other states come to this city wanting a good life. We can't feed and give homes to everyone,” he mumbles.

“But we are willing to work and not live on charity,” Baba protests.

“I know, but don't you realize that there're too many people like you looking for work?”

He packs some salt, red pepper, and turmeric in small packages. He puts it all in a plastic bag and hands it to me. Baba takes out some money. “Today, you're my guest. You don't need to pay,” the owner says.

Baba bows. “I pray to God to keep your family happy and healthy.” I bow too.

“We better get back to Aai and the twins. I'm sure they are scared,” I tell Baba.

“Yes,” he replies. “We have wandered enough for the day.”

 

Aai, Sita, and Naren are huddled on the footpath. “What did you bring?” Sita asks as soon as she sees my bag.

“Look what the man gave us,” I say, showing the packages. “There's rice and lentils and spices.”

“What else?”

“Isn't this a lot? He gave it for free.”

“But how will we eat it?” Sita asks.

I am annoyed with her. We got all these groceries and she is still whining about food. Before I tell her to stop complaining, she says, “We have no stove to cook rice and
dal
.”

“What about the
rotis
you made, Aai?” I ask.

“There're only two left. What difference does it make once we get to Jama's house? Did you find out how to get there?”

“I'll take a bus tomorrow morning and bring him here,” Baba replies.

Aai's face tenses up and her
bindi
is wrinkled with worry lines. She doesn't say anything, though. Baba takes out the money he has squirreled away in his pocket. “Let's get some food, Gopal,” he says.

“Don't go too far,” Aai calls after us. I turn around and wave at her before we round the corner. Aai's face is still scrunched up as she holds Sita's hand. Naren is crouched by them. Maybe it would be better if I stayed with them, but Baba has asked me to go with him and I can't say no.

Baba and I plod along, trying to avoid banging into people. Luckily, we don't have to cross the street. Nearby there is a handcart selling snacks and we return with two packages of hot, fried
pakoras
. Then he takes out a pan from the sack and walks away to get water. I open one package and we each take one
pakora
, except Aai. She waits for Baba to return.

The
pakoras
are made with potatoes, chickpea flour
called
besan
, and spices. Once, a tourist in Matheran bought me one for carrying his bags. This one is spicier.

Baba returns with water, and it tastes good to have a few sips of it. By the time Baba and Aai start to eat, one package is finished and the twins are waiting to eat more.

“Gopal?” Baba holds out the open package to me.

I hesitate because I want to make sure Baba and Aai had enough.

Baba hands me a big, fat
pakora
. “One more, for me.”

I feel pretty full after I finish that one and drink some more water. Aai says, “One thing nice about
besan
is that when you drink water, it expands in your stomach.”

As soon as my stomach is satisfied, I feel sleepy, but there are so many people walking by us, I don't think I can fall asleep. Aai spreads the tattered rug on the edge of the footpath for the twins. I sit with my back against the station wall and watch.

The evening is warm, the fumes are heavy, and the noise has thickened. The hazy gray cloud hangs low. It is dark now and the lamps light up the area. I look up but can't see a single star. The lovely moon that shone so brightly over the pond last night is hidden behind the layers of smog.

Even with my family here I am scared. We should have been at Jama's house by now and we are not. This place is full of people and so much is going on, and yet I feel I am not part of it. It is like they are all in a movie—real
but not real. Was this the right thing to do? Before I left our village, I thought the stars might change our luck in Mumbai, but here the stars can't see us and we can't see them.

“Will you tell us a story?” Naren asks me.

“Even an old one is fine, if you are tired,” Sita says, patting my arm.

I don't want to, but Aai smiles at me, which says to me,
Please, tell them a story.

I can't say no to her. “How about a Birbal story?”

Naren shakes his head. “You didn't finish the marble—”

I don't feel like making up a story. “I'll tell that one when we get to Jama's house. If you don't want to hear this one—”

“We do,” Sita says. “And we will keep quiet.” She stares at Naren to make sure he understands the rule.

I tell them a story that I have memorized from my book. That way I don't have to think. I begin, “A long time ago the Mogul king Akbar ruled India. He had nine special people in his court and he called them
navratna
, nine jewels. They were his advisors and his friends. One of his
navratna
was a man named Birbal. Birbal was smart, funny, and he wasn't afraid to speak the truth. Akbar thought Birbal was the smartest and the wisest man in his kingdom.

“Akbar's other advisors were jealous of Birbal because he was the king's favorite, so they made a plan to get rid
of Birbal. They bribed Akbar's barber. The barber told the king, ‘
Shahanshah!
Birbal delights us all and makes us laugh. We all love him dearly. Just think how much your forefathers would enjoy him if he went to heaven and entertained them!'”

“They didn't like him. They wanted him to die,” Naren blurts out.

“Shhh,” Sita whispers.

I ignore them and continue. “Akbar knew his other advisors were behind his barber's strange request, but he was sure Birbal would outsmart them. ‘Excellent idea,' Akbar said. ‘Let's send Birbal to heaven.'

“In the full court that evening Akbar told Birbal about how he should go to heaven to entertain Akbar's ancestors. ‘I'd love to,' Birbal said. ‘Please give me a few days to finish my work here.'