Born Behind Bars: Chapters 40–70

That night, I eat Rani's squirrel stew without complaining, although it still makes my stomach queasy.

An old man entering the bathroom after me shakes his head when I tell him there's no water. "Surprise, surprise," he says. "First thing they do when there's water scarcity is turn it off in places where people like us live."

A wiry old man interrupts us. "What's the problem here?"
"We did nothing wrong!" I exclaim.

A burly man sitting across from us butts in, "Kabir like a Muslim, or Kabir like a Hindu?"

"Ai, she's old enough to be your mother. Speak to her with respect!” a young man says, jumping into the quarrel. “Don't you stingy Bengaluru people know better than to use that rude tone when you address your elders?"

"When I was young, we always had rain," Aunty Silver says, motioning out the window at a stretch of cracked earth. "Fields were greener than your parrot's wings. But the weather has been changing. Every year it gets hotter. The monsoon fails. Rivers run dry. Water gets scarce, and there isn't enough food to go around...."

"The ground does look thirsty," I agree, looking out at the landscape, full of straggly plants and trees with withered leaves.

"The ground does look thirsty," I agree, looking out at the landscape, full of straggly plants and trees with withered leaves.

Porters leap into action to help rich passengers with their luggage as we exit the train.

Jay doesn't seem to mind rising early. He hops onto her shoulder jauntily when she lets him out of his cage.

For a moment, the crowd falls silent. Then a voice rasps, "That's just a kid up there!"

Rani's eyes flit over the wall that runs along the yard as if she wants to climb over it. "Can we go now?" she asks when I finish my story.

"Thank you. Thank you. Thank you."
"It was nothing," he says, but he looks pleased as Thatha and Patti echo my gratitude.

Outside the police station, Thatha hails a rickshaw. We get in, and my grandparents squish me between them.

Outside the police station, Thatha hails a rickshaw. We get in, and my grandparents squish me between them.

I grit my teeth, trying to hold back the anger and missing-Amma feeling and whatever-else feelings that slosh about inside my stomach like Rani's stew.

"But I like that Saint Kabir tried to bring Muslims and Hindus together. They say, after he died, his followers fought over whether to bury him or cremate him—"

Soon, I'm munching on a hot, crisp dosai that's filled with fresh chutney made from ground-up coconut and coriander and chili, according to Patti.

And in jail, I had Malli for a friend, who was so much younger but never asked questions as ignorant as Junaid's.

Then we walk over to a young man who has sacks filled with rice and all sorts of uncooked grains. Patti sifts bright orange lentils with her fingers before she buys some.

After I fill her in, Tanvi Ma'am says in a voice as brisk as a jail guard's, "Your mother has been in jail far too long. Even for aggravated theft, the punishment is seven years. I can't promise, but I think this is a straightforward case. I'll be happy to work on getting her released."

After I fill her in, Tanvi Ma'am says in a voice as brisk as a jail guard's, "Your mother has been in jail far too long. Even for aggravated theft, the punishment is seven years. I can't promise, but I think this is a straightforward case. I'll be happy to work on getting her released."

"So you can prove Amma is innocent?" My heart soars. At last, the truth will come out.
"Hold on, Kabir. At this point we don't need to prove anything. Your mother has already spent more time in jail than if she'd been convicted."

Amma starts bawling, and I do too. I don't know why, though, because it's the best moment of my life.

After Grandma Knife leaves, Thatha and Patti introduce themselves to Amma. Amma presses her hands together and bows. She stammers her thanks to them.