Boys without Names (9 page)

I hoist Naren and Sita onto the mattresses piled on the wooden bench so if the water comes in they don't get wet. I hand them my deck of cards. Outside, the water has nowhere to go. It gushes down to meet the overflowing sewer. The stink of everything mixes together: chemicals from tanning hides, melting plastic, people and animal waste, and rotting plants. They all mask the heavenly scent of the rain-soaked earth. The entire street has turned into a filthy
nalla
.

My mind wanders back to the village. After the first few rains filled the pond, Mohan, Shiva, and I would go to the bank and have a jumping competition. We would jump from one of the
nimba
branches that loomed over the water. “One, two, three,” the others would shout, and down we would go. I wonder if Naren and Sita will remember our village, pond, or the wandering goats.

Sita and Naren won't be able to splash in the newly
refilled pond. They will have memories of a stinking sewer in monsoon. This is not what I thought we were coming to. I miss the village, but if we had stayed there, we would have starved. Here, Jama has good job and has enough food, and milk for tea. I will take Naren and Sita back to the village someday, I promise myself.

“What are you thinking, Gopal?” Aai asks.

“Nothing.” I turn my head to look at her.

“Your hands are curled into fists and now you're chewing your lip.”

“Oh, Aai. I miss the pond,
gorus-chinch
, and even the muddy fields.”

She sighs. “I know.”

“Sita and Naren won't remember all that. Will they?”

“They'll make their own memories.”

“Of what? Dead rats floating by?”

“They're not looking out the window. They'll remember being perched on a stack of mattresses and playing cards with each other, safe in the house from rain and wind, having warm tea, their Aai and big brother close by.”

Aai's words bring a smile back to my lips.

As I watch all the water coming down, I remember how two years ago the rains fell on our farm and gave us bumper crops. That's how we ended up here.

“Baba, Baba,” Naren suddenly sobs.

“Don't cry, Naren. Jama will bring Baba back. Right?”
Sita looks at Aai and me.

I lift Naren up and take him to Aai. Sita hops down and follows us.

“Baba will be back soon,” I say as I put him on the sofa. It is a lie, but it is the best answer I have and that's the truth.

Aai holds Naren in her lap and Sita snuggles up to her.

I look in the covered pan sitting in the corner next to the stove. There is enough milk in it. “How about some tea?”

“I want Baba,” Sita says.

Naren's sobs get louder.

I pace the room, not knowing what to do.

Finally, I light the stove, put the water on to boil, and make tea.

While we sip the tea the rain slows down. What if Jama doesn't come back? What will we do? I push the thought away. Jama has lived here for years and must know how to stay safe during monsoon.

The sound of the rain dies, but the smell doesn't. In the last day, I have gotten used to the strong odor, but this is horrendous, like a field covered with a thousand blooming onions.

The storm has moved away and the sun comes out, but outside the rainwater has mixed with open sewage, forming a dark stream. We stay inside. Naren and Sita play their cards and I open my notebook. I write my name
on the first page. Chachaji has made sure that the first page is completely blank. Aai fixes a hole in the dress Jama bought for Sita yesterday. When she is done, Sita puts it on and I can't tell there was a hole.

“Aai, maybe you can fix clothes. You're good at it,” I say.

“Or sew new ones,” she says.

“Will you make a new dress for me?” Sita asks, twirling.

“You will need a sewing machine for it. That costs a lot,” I tell Aai.

“Jama says you can get one on a monthly payment.”

“I want a purple and pink dress,” Sita says, climbing onto Aai's lap.

“I don't think we should borrow money or anything. We had to run away from our debt.” The words come out faster and louder than I expected.

“We will see,” Aai whispers. I don't know if she is talking to Sita or me.

If Aai has a machine she can stay home and make money. Maybe I can help her buy one.

I must find work.

It is late in the evening and Jama is not back. Even though I want to stay up, I am so tired that I fall asleep before he gets home.

I
n the morning, I want to find out if Jama has any news about Baba, but if he did he would have told me. Instead, I tell Jama about Jatin and ask if he knows someone named Korae in the neighborhood. “Korae, Korae,” he chants. “I can't think of anyone by that name. Did you say he has a factory? What kind?”

I should have asked Jatin about it yesterday. “I don't know.”

“Because not many people have their own businesses here. Does Jatin live around here?”

“I don't think so.”

“Anyway,” he says, “you'd better concentrate on your studies and not worry about
faltu
things.”

I want to tell him this is not a useless thing and ask him if I should find out from Jatin if there is any work in
his uncle's factory, but Jama has made it as clear as sunshine that he wants me to study, so I'd better not ask him. “Yes,” I say.

But I do want to work. I'll go look for Jatin and if I find him I can ask him about working in his uncle's factory until school begins. “I am going to Chachaji's shop. I'll be back soon,” I tell Aai.

The morning is breezy and light. Maybe it won't rain today. Three boys my age walk to school carrying their book bags. It won't be long before I join them. I think of Mohan and Shiva. The three of us used to race to school, and would reach there out of breath and full of red dust. One time walking to school Mohan sprained his ankle; Shiva and I helped him get back home. We reached school so late that Mr. Advale was upset, but once he found out the reason he said he was proud of us and gave us both a new pencil. When Shiva's baba died, Mohan and I spent our evenings with him, sitting by the pond, talking.

I'm afraid to make new friends, because I am not as smart as the boys here must be. They speak many languages and have seen and heard a lot more than I have. They can speak Bambaiya Hindi, and probably even English, know how to turn a TV on, and must have read many books. But I can't have Mohan and Shiva here, so I must make new friends. Will these boys talk to me or shun me?

There are too many people in the city, so it is difficult to know whom to trust, but some of them have been
generous. Maybe I need to show kindness. If Aai had not offered Card-Man
roti
, he wouldn't have bought us
chai
, given me the cards, and helped us with the luggage. Maybe we should have trusted Card-Man and shown him Jama's address. Then maybe he would have helped us find Jama in the first place, and we wouldn't have had to spend two nights by the station.

We wouldn't have lost Baba.

Maybe we should have never left the village. There we had Baba and now we haven't seen him for three days. I sigh. The smell of this place bothers me, but I have to keep breathing. I miss Baba, but I have to keep on living. There isn't much I can do.

Baba, Baba, Baba!

Each day for the past three days I have thought he will come today, but by the evening I skip my hope to the next day. With each passing moment, there is less and less chance that I will see him again. It hurts me and I know it rips Aai apart. Naren and Sita miss him. I don't know how long I can keep my hope afloat.

 

Before I know it, I am at the corner by Chachaji's shop. I'm too early, because it is closed like most other shops. I walk up and down the street. There's no sign of Jatin. I feel stupid. Why would he just wait around this neighborhood? He probably is working in his uncle's factory, and meanwhile I have nothing to do.

At the end of the block, there is a
pipul
tree with new
leaves sprouting on it and beyond it is a bridge. I am surprised to see the tree standing alone. It has survived the city moving all around it.

From the bridge, I see tall buildings. I think of the magazine that Mohan had, with pictures of fancy rooms filled with expensive furniture and beautiful people. The pictures must have been taken in a building like those. That world seems so close and yet so far.

I don't cross the bridge, but turn back to go home.

 

By noon, the day that started out cool and comfortable is turning hot and steamy, and I am restless. I am wasting my time when I could be making money. I wish Chachaji had a job for me, but his shop can barely support him. There is no way he can pay me. I take a nap, think about the village and the pond, and play cards. Finally, I read my books, but my mind is muddied like the rainwater flowing through the street. My eyes just skim over the words, nothing reaches my brain.

When I see kids returning from school, I grab my notebook and pencil and take a walk, hoping I can talk to some of them. They all move in clusters of three or four, chatting, joking, and laughing. But they don't notice me. They are absorbed in their chatter.

I pass Chachaji's shop again. “Come here, Gopal. I have something for you,” he says.

“Yes?”

He points to the floor. “Do you have time to separate
and stack this stuff?”

I survey the store. The piles of magazines and newspapers have taken over practically every centimeter of the floor. I make my way through the store by picking up the piles and stacking them. Some of the magazines are fun to look at and I linger on one with the picture of Shahrukh Kahn on the cover. “I can't pay you,” Chachaji admits. “But you can take a couple of magazines home.”

After about half an hour I am finished and have chosen two of the magazines.
“Shabash!”
Chachaji says, looking around. He takes out a flashlight from a cupboard. “Here is your reward for good, fast work,” he says. “It is a used one, but it has new batteries and works well.”

“Don't you need it anymore?”

“Yesterday I bought one with a more powerful light. You will be fine with this one. Always carry it with you. If nothing else, it will keep you from stepping into you-know-what.” He laughs as loudly as temple bells.

“Thank you, Chachaji,” I say. The red flashlight is only a little thicker than a pencil and about sixteen centimeters long. I slip it in my pocket. Many tourists carry a flashlight in Matheran but I have never had one before, and I can't wait to show it to Aai.

Two more people show up with large bundles, and Chachaji gets busy with them. I walk to the end of the street to see if Jatin is there. The street is crowded and I don't see him.

I am about to turn away when I hear, “Gopal, Gopal.”

It is Jatin! He's waving his hand furiously, as if he doesn't want to miss me.

“Did you find your uncle?” I ask.

“My uncle?” For a second, Jatin's face has no expression. Like his sleek hair, it looks unnatural. Has he forgotten our conversation? “
Accha, accha,
my uncle! I found him.”

“Are you working in his factory?”

“Ho.”

“Do you, I mean, can you ask him if he can give me a job?”

He gives me a lingering look. His face breaks out in a big smile. “For sure!”

“Really?”

“
Pakka
. You can work for my uncle.”

How can Jatin tell me that I can work for his uncle for sure? But maybe his uncle is looking for more workers. It doesn't matter as long as I have a job. From the corner of my eye, I see Chachaji waving at me. I wave back. He probably wants me to pick up the magazines I set aside, but this is not the time, when Jatin is ready to give me a job. “What do I have to do?”

Jatin rests his palm on my shoulder. “You will like the work. It is making picture frames and easy stuff like that.”

That doesn't sound as hard as lifting heavy luggage or breaking stones at the quarry. “I'll ask my aai and let you know tomorrow.”

“Haven't you heard
Kal kere so aaj kare, aaj kare so abb
? What needs to be done, must be done right away. Why wait a second longer?”

“If I don't tell Aai she will worry. Come with me and you can meet her.”

“I want to, but not today,” he says. “Here is the thing: I've got to see my uncle now, so it will be rude to meet your mother and not have time to talk to her. But I can take you to my uncle. We'll be back in no time.”

I look in the direction of our home. “I'll run and tell Aai. I'll be right back.”

“See that tea stand? I'll be there for five minutes. If you're not back, I will have to leave.”

“Wait for me, please,” I plead.

When I reach home, I'm out of breath. Aai is folding clothes. “The boy I met yesterday, Jatin—he's here. He can give me a job in his uncle's factory. I am going with him. I'll be back soon.”

“We don't know him. You should wait until you talk to Jama tonight.”

“Jatin is going to leave in two minutes. This is my chance, Aai. I have to go. Here, take this notebook and pencil.”

“You can't go, Gopal. It looks like rain, and listen—”

“He is waiting. I'll tell him I can't go and be right back.”

I grab the blue raincoat hanging from a nail by the front door and run out.

“Sambhalun ja!”
Aai tells me to be careful.

Jatin is sipping tea and there is another full cup on a wooden table. He moves it toward me. “For you.”

“I thought you were in a hurry.”

He gives a shrill laugh. “One must always make time for
chai
. Have some.”

As soon as I drink a few sips, Jatin gets up. “Let's go,” he says.

I am lightheaded. Jatin, the cups, the stall all float around me. I wobble along with him. The footpath seems to rise up to meet me. “I…I can't go with you. My aai doesn't want me to,” I say.

“Come now.” He waves his hand. “Taxi!”

“But…”

He puts his arm around me. A taxi stops. Before I know it, I am in the backseat. I close my eyes.

Then darkness takes me.