The Bridge Home: Chapters 13–20

“Sorry,” Arul said, tugging at the piece left in his hair. It stuck up at a jaunty angle, refusing to come out.

“Why are you sorry, boss?” Muthu pealed with laughter. “You just made two combs out of their one.”

I cast a glance at you, wondering if it would upset you to hear me talking about Appa, but you and Muthu were busy combing Kutti’s scanty fur with one of the pieces of comb.

“Yesu had apostles,” Arul corrected him. “Teachers who spread his word. Stop talking nonsense, Muthu. You should know better.”

Kutti trotted along as we followed Arul across the bridge to the side we hadn’t explored yet. It led to a crowded street where cars honked and bicycle bells trilled and motorbikes and auto rickshaws spewed trails of smoke.

A van lurched by, with schoolchildren in uniform hanging out the windows.

“School!” Muthu guffawed, like I’d been joking. “You actually like school?”

“I used to go to school, when I lived in my village.” Arul sounded wistful. “I had a great teacher, too.”

He motioned toward a pile of crumpled jute sacks lying in a corner. I took one, and Arul picked out a stick.

“Welcome to the Himalayas of rubbish!” Muthu said with a dramatic flourish.

“Search.” Muthu prodded a broken bottle at the base of a mound. “For treasure. Like this. Glass or metal scraps are best. The waste mart man will even buy cardboard and cloth if they’re not too tattered.”

With an effort, I swallowed my words and the bile that had risen in my throat and stepped farther into the mound.

I squelched along as best I could, making slow progress.

Arul must have realized what a slog it was for me, because every now and then, he called out, “Nice work.”

We haggled with a handcart vendor for two big bunches of bananas, one ready to eat, the other still green, so it would ripen in a day or two.

Could we ever recover enough to clean ourselves up and go to school? Or was that dream as impossible as pretending the trash dump was a treasure trove?

Shanties built out of every imaginable scrap of waste—roofs of coconut thatch or gunnysacks, walls cobbled together from metal signs, wooden crates, or even cardboard taped over with plastic sheets—lined the narrow streets.

Shanties built out of every imaginable scrap of waste—roofs of coconut thatch or gunnysacks, walls cobbled together from metal signs, wooden crates, or even cardboard taped over with plastic sheets—lined the narrow streets.

Sullen faced, the boy named Sridar stepped away as Arul joined us.

We strolled along the walkway between the road and the beach, past pushcarts piled high with corn and peanuts and hawkers selling multicolored plastic balls and cricket bats, flimsy kites, toys, dolls, pinwheels.

“Money?” You furrowed your brows thoughtfully. “Money?”

Groups of pedestrians bustled past without casting a glance in our direction.

But my worry dwindled when I looked at you.

“Where did you get all this…” Arul’s eyes darted from your balloon to our clothes to the food we’d piled on the ground in front of our tents—a whole loaf of fresh white bread, chocolate bars, packages of salty plantain chips and crisp murukkus.

We’d felt so rich, we’d even bought Kutti a juicy bone from the mutton stall, and he was gnawing on it contentedly.

“Look!” Muthu unfurled our straw mats. “These are for us to sleep on!”

One day, the sea receded so far that fish were hopping on the ground.

He spoke with complete conviction.

“We’re mountain climbers, remember? You can lead our team.” Arul speared a large rag with a misshapen metal pole that lay on the ground. “Here—carry our flag, Captain.”

“But...” Sridar gaped. “She’s a girl!”

“You started it.” Muthu glared back, arms akimbo.

A nauseating smell rose and smacked me in the face, but I toiled as fast as I could.

A nauseating smell rose and smacked me in the face, but I toiled as fast as I could.

Arul was pulling Kutti off when Kumar and the other boys in his gang joined Sridar, yelling and adding to the commotion.

He even paid us the same pittance he usually did, despite his threats.