Boys without Names (15 page)

I
t is hard to believe three more weeks have gone by since the big storm and I am still here. Every morning I wake up with a flame of hope that I will run away today. It burns all day and every evening when Scar locks the door, it dies. After we saved the frames, Scar doesn't move the ladder away at night anymore. I wish I had the power to click open the lock and escape.

No such luck.

Somehow I must make my luck with the help of the other boys, but GC is the one I can't trust. He will not let the others come together. And if I try, will he get me in trouble like he did before? He might. Still, I must take a chance because if I don't, I have nothing else.

At ten o'clock, we put away the beads. Roshan flattens out wrinkles from his bed. His jaw is clenched tight
and he is smoothing the sack over and over with his palms to get rid of the smallest creases, but the jute is so itchy, I don't know how it can make any difference.

I thought Night Chatterer would be one of the last ones to reveal his name because he hardly speaks. It is strange; I knew his name before anyone else's. I guess he was so scared that night when GC asked who was crying that Roshan blurted out his name. If I want the group's help I must know their names and make them my friends.

“What's your name?” I ask Rocking Boy.

He clutches his sack close to his chest, darts a look at GC, and hesitates.

I put my hand on his shoulder. “I want to call you by your real name. That is who you really are.”

He stares at his feet for a second. “My name is Sahil,” he says as he looks up. “Someone told me it means leader.”

“You? A leader?” GC snorts. “That's an
oulta,
upside-down, name for you.”

“Leave him alone,” Thick Fingers says.

Slowly Thick Fingers seems to be standing up against GC. “I like it better than Rocking Boy,” I say.

“Sahil is a nice name,” Dimpled Chin agrees. “I am Amar, but no one has called me Amar for a long time.”

I glance at Thick Fingers. He is quiet as if nothing is happening around him. As long as he doesn't ask me to stop I must keep on going. “Amar means everlasting, forever.”

“Really, Gopal? I never knew that Amar meant some
thing. I want everyone to call me Amar.” His voice drops to a whisper. “But Boss will be mad if he hears it.”

“We never talk when Boss is around,” I remind him.

“You're right. May I please tell Amar's story?”

“A made-up one or the real one?” GC asks.

If GC doesn't want to be part of the story circle he should stay quiet, but it is clear that he is listening.

Amar begins. “My baba said I was a naughty boy, and that is why he hit me so I would behave better. It only happened when he came home smelling bad and said bad words. He slept until the sun was way up in the sky.”

“Where was your mother?” Sahil asks.

“My mother died when I was three. I had a stepmother who was busy with my younger brothers and sisters, and they always behaved well. That is what my stepmother told my father. Even when I was good, I was bad. I was always bad.” His voice shrinks to a whisper.

“You were good,” Thick Fingers says.

GC stops spreading his sack. “How do you know?”

“I, I mean, we don't know that for sure, but how can he be bad? I mean, don't you think he was too young to know what
bad
meant?”

GC waves his hand. “
Accha, accha
. I don't have time for this babbling explanation.”

By now we are all ready to sleep.

“We haven't had a
kahani
for a long time.” Amar turns to me and adds, “Gopal, can we have one tonight? It will make me happy.”

I want to pick him up, give him a great big twirl like I used to give Naren, and say yes. GC folds his hands across the chest and stares at me. The tension between us is as sharp as a pointy pencil, and I don't want to say yes to Amar before asking Thick Fingers. Besides, GC might complain about it to Scar. I shake my head.

“Why not? I like the one you told us before. I want to hear it again. Please?”

I glance at Thick Fingers and he turns away.

Amar draws up his knees, hugs his legs, and rests his head on his knees. I can't see his face but with his slumped shoulder he looks so sad. I sit down next to him. Amar raises his head. His eyes are teary and his face is hopeful.

“Don't cry, Amar. I will tell a story,” I say. I don't care if ten GCs go against me and complain to Scar.

“We can't have light. I don't want Boss to have a bigger electricity bill and find out we stayed up late. He will make us work more hours,” Thick Fingers says. So we turn the naked bulb off and form a circle. The only person who hasn't joined the circle is GC. He is stretched out on his sack.

Before I begin the story, I take out the flashlight, turn it on, and set it in the middle. “Summer vacation was my favorite time because I got to spend the days in Matheran.”

“Telling everyone he spent summers on a hill station to get away from the heat as if he were one of the Khans! Total liar,” GC snorts.

I ignore him and continue. “Every morning, I would wake up at four, and by four thirty Aai and I would begin climbing the hill to Matheran. My friends Mohan and Shiva and their mothers also came, so it was fun. Matheran means “forest on the top,” and the place was filled with trees, birds, monkeys, snakes, and other animals. It was a long hike, and it took us almost two hours to climb the mountain, but we got there before the morning train arrived, bringing people from Mumbai. The best part was that when we started out, stars twinkled in the sky and the moon shone like a plumeria blossom. But by the time we got to the top, the moon and stars had disappeared, and the sky was as pink as
gorus-chinch
as the sun peeked from behind the hills.”

“O-o-oh, so beautiful.” Roshan sighs.

“Shhhh, don't disturb him,
yaar
,” Amar says.

“When the train arrived, we would carry the tourists' luggage to fancy hotels like the Richie Rich Resort and the Verandah in the Forest. After that, we hung out by the car-and-taxi parking lot because the train only came at certain times and brought tourists all at once, but the cars and taxis came all day long, and we were able to find work.”

“With all the money you got paid, you must have been rich, Gopal. Are you hiding your money in a pocket like your flashlight?” GC jeers.

“No. Whatever I earned I gave to Aai and Baba because they needed it.”

“You were a good son,” Thick Fingers says.

I am so surprised by Thick Fingers's comment that I forget what I am saying.

“Ye-ye-yes,” Roshan agrees.

“Are you listening?” I ask Sahil, throwing the beam at him and to gather my thoughts. He nods. “In the afternoon, Mohan, Shiva, and I would go to Lake Charlotte and have our lunch under a
nimba
tree on a hot afternoon. If the day was cool, we would walk out on one of the rock outcrops and sit in the sun. The manmade lake and the god-made hills belonged together, and we never got tired of either one of them. Many tourists traveled by horse, and one of the horse owners was from our village. He would let us ride his horses when there were no customers.”

“What color were the horses?” Amar asks.

“They were green like parrots.” GC laughs at his own joke. The rest of them are silent, as if a rude student has disturbed the teacher when he was talking about something interesting and important. I wish GC would just sit in his corner and keep his mouth shut. He enjoys interrupting us, especially me, and if he knows I am irritated he will keep on doing it. Like Aai used to say, “Why give a monkey a ladder?”

Her round face comes to mind and I want to give her a hug and take in the smell of her clean sari. I am glad the yellow naked bulb is off. In the light of the flashlight, no one can see my face. I wait for the sadness to pass away.
The rest of the group waits patiently. “One horse was cinnamon and the other was black. My favorite was Prince. His coat was shiny black with a tear-shaped white mark between his eyes, and I could feel he liked me, because when I got close to him, he moved his head forward as if to greet me.”

“Why do you all listen to this nonsense and lies?” GC asks.

“We-we listen be-be-because the lies are better th-than the truth we have. If-if you have better lies, then we will li-li-listen to you. Un-un-until then, just be quiet.” Roshan stutters like he did in his sleep. But his voice is sharp, as if it has been whittled down by anger. Even GC must feel it, because he doesn't argue.

“So you like the black horse and he liked you,
na
?” Sahil asks. He is enjoying the story. It makes me smile.

“The black horse was gentle and sunny most of the time, but when he was upset he turned dark and threatening. One day when I rode him, a loud noise startled him and he took off. It was a foggy day and I was certain that Prince would run off one of the cliffs and we would plunge into the valley. My heart pounded faster than his gallops.”

Amar leans forward, resting his chin on his clasped hands. “Did he?”

“Then he wouldn't be telling us this tale,” GC says.

“I tried to slow him down, and when he finally calmed down, I whispered in his ears that I still loved him even
though he had scared me. After that day, he was always gentle with me. When I rode him, the breeze brushed my hair, the red dust sprayed about, and the hills surrounded me. It made me feel like I could do anything. I dreamed that someday I would have a horse just like him.” I close my eyes and see Prince prancing in front of me, and I can hear his whinny.

“Do you still dream that?” I don't even know who asks, but it brings me back to our circle.

“I do. Someday I want to get a horse like Prince.”

GC gets up and stands in the middle of the circle facing me. “How can you own a horse? You are sitting in this prison working away like a slave and dreaming like a prince. And you like a horse named Prince. Ha, ha, ha! Your dreams are nothing but dust under the horse's hooves.”

“I never dreamed I would end up here, but I did. Who knows what tomorrow might bring?”

“Tomorrow is going to be same as today—full of glue, beads, and frames.”

“Still, it is better to have dreams, because then someday they can come true. But if you don't have them, then you have nothing. So tell me. Is it better to have nothing or have something?” I ask.

“I don't know. I never had anything,” GC mumbles.

“What do you mean? Tell us about your family.”

GC thumps his foot. “I don't have a family and you don't either, Gopal. Stop talking about Aai and Baba.
You never had them or a village or friends. You've never even seen a horse. You tell all these stories to make yourself feel better and make us feel bad. Isn't that right?” GC picks up my flashlight. “Tell me these are all lies or else I will smash your flashlight against the wall.”

I reach to snatch the flashlight from his hand, but GC is taller than I am and he stretches his hand above his head. The beam that was steady on the ceiling is shaky. Before I know it, someone grabs the flashlight and hands it to me. It must be Thick Fingers, because he is the only one as tall as GC and he doesn't want any trouble.

It is time to go to bed.

What GC said tonight makes me sad and mad, all mixed together like swirls of marble. It is sad that for GC this is home, and as bad as Scar is, GC wants only to please him. I am mad because GC tells me that I am making up stories and I don't have a family.

If it weren't for GC we would be a story circle.

B
ecause GC and I fought, again there are no more stories. Every night, Amar wiggles his loose tooth and he has this pleading look in his eyes, and I can tell he wants to listen to
kahanis
, but there is nothing I can do. Except for GC, everyone enjoys the story circle. I think even Thick Fingers misses it, but he won't say so as long as GC is against it. I wish our leader had the courage to stand up to GC.

One day, Scar calls GC down to pack the frames. It is the first time Scar has asked for GC's help since I came here. Does this mean he is now in charge? Has GC told one of our secrets to Scar? I am not sure.

The elongated
nimba
fruits have turned yellow. Now that GC is gone, it is time to pick them. I get up, stick my hands through the bars, and pluck as many as I can reach.

“These are bittersweet. Who wants them?” I whisper.

All of them do, so I pass them on. With the bars on the window I can't reach too far, but still we each have a handful.

“Eat quickly,” Thick Fingers whispers to Amar.

“I can't chew any faster, because they're bitter. They make my mouth slow down.”

We all smile at his excuse.

“I know, Amar,” I say, “but my aai says that
nimba
is good for you. It will keep us healthy.”

“Your aai knows a lot of stuff. Can you tell us one of her stories again? Please?”

“GC doesn't like them.”

“Who is GC?” Thick Fingers asks. He was not here when I had asked GC his name and he had refused to tell me.

“The one who went downstairs is Gray Cloud,” Amar says. “Right?”

“Yes.”

“Bu-bu-but except for GC we all like
kahanis
,” Roshan says.

“Yes, but—” Thick Fingers starts to say.

“Let's take a vote,” I suggest quickly.

Sahil has stopped rocking and working. “What is a vote?”

He listens intently as I answer. “It is when we ask everyone what they want to do. Then we do what most of us agree on. If GC is the leader he may not allow us, but if you don't shout your wares, you can't sell. We must at least try.”

“Just because Boss asked GC to help him today doesn't mean he is the leader,” Thick Fingers says.

I bite my lip. It was a mistake to say GC is the leader. “I am sorry,” I quickly say to Thick Fingers.

“Let's vote tonight,” Amar says. He smiles so broadly that I see another dimple on his right cheek. How could I not have noticed it before?

Thick Fingers gives him a stern look. “It is like ganging up on GC. I don't like it.”

I remember how he and GC were so mean to me when I came. This is not the time to remind him of it, though. “Maybe GC will go along with it and we won't have to worry about taking votes,” I say.

After our whispered talk, Amar can hardly sit still. He still fidgets when GC gets back. GC tells him to calm down, but every time my eyes meet Amar's, he smirks like he is going to a fair.

 

“Are we going to have a
kahani
tonight?” Amar asks when we spread open our sacks.

I wait for GC to oppose, but he ignores us.

“Roshan, can you tell us a story?” I ask.

“I-I-I don't have stories and I can never ma-make them up. If-if I could, I would tell you that I rode on an ele-ele-elephant every day.” Roshan laughs, but his voice is empty and hollow, like a carved-out pumpkin.

“It doesn't matter. Tell us your story,” Thick Fingers says.

Roshan takes a few deep breaths. It seems to help him because when he speaks he doesn't stutter much. “I have eight brothers and sisters and I stood third. My pa-pa-parents had little money, but we lived at the edge of a forest and it gave us many things we needed.

“B-b-by the time I was six, I would go to the forest with my sisters. W-we got fruits, firewood, and even medicine from there. M-m-my favorite job was to gather wild acacia fruit when it turned golden yellow and slightly sweet. It was a short walk or so from our home, but once I got there, I could eat as many as I wanted. When I was full, I filled my po-po-pockets to bring them home for my younger brothers and sisters.”

This story reminds me of Mohan, Shiva, and me picking
bor
fruits.

“Wh-when it was hot, my sisters would cover their heads with scarves. If there was no shade, they would cover me with one too. Once we got to the acacias, the sh-sh-shade cooled us. Sometimes, I fell asleep under a tree.”

“With a hundred fans above,” Sahil whispers. His head full of curls seems to throw a halo around him.

GC laughs. “
Bakvas bandh kero!
Stop blabbering, Sahil and Roshan!”

“I'm n-n-not. I used to go with my sisters to gather the wild acacia pods.” Roshan's voice is firm, as if he is not going to allow GC to snatch the memory from his heart.

“I don't like acacias. They are covered with thorns.”

To argue with GC is to argue with one of the monkeys in Matheran. When you win, you realize you have turned into a monkey. I ask Roshan, “How did you end up here?”

He takes time before he answers. “I-I was about eight years old when they cut many tre-trees to built a road through the forest. Then shops, buildings, and houses replaced all the trees. They sold food in the market, but us fo-fo-forest people had no money. One day some people came to us with a me-me-megaphone and ann-ann-announced that they would find us jobs in the big city that would pay well. My-my baba asked them how much I would make and they said, ‘Yo-yo-your son will make enough to feed your family and he will attend school and have a city ad-adventure.'”

“But you don't make any money, you don't go to school, and you are not having a city adventure,” Thick Fingers says. “None of us are.”

“Scar sends the mo-mo-money I earn to my family.”

“That's a lie that doesn't cost Boss anything,” GC says.

“Wh-what do you mean?”

“After all the expense for keeping you and feeding you, do you think there is any money left to send to your parents?”

I know GC is right. Scar had told me I'd make as much money as the other boys. Like the others, he hasn't paid me a single rupee.

Roshan sighs. “May-maybe Boss keeps all the money, but at that time the people who brought me to the city gave my baba some money and said they would send more later. Th-they took me and some other boys in a truck with them, and after a few days I ended up in a place where they made clo-clothes.”

“You can sew?” Thick Fingers asks.

“We-we only stitched buttons, hun-hundreds of them. One day, the owner got the news that the police were going to raid the place and so he tran-tran-transferred us right away. There were five of us, but I don't know where everyone went. All I know is, I ended up here.”

“You miss them,
na
?” Sahil asks.

“I don-don-don't. I never became their friend.”

Amar scoots closer to Roshan. “But you are our friend, right?”

We all wait for Roshan to answer. “Yes, I am your friend.” I am amazed he doesn't stutter at all.

“You're not my friend,” GC says.

“But I am yours.”

“Why?”

“It is b-b-better than having you as an enemy.”

“So you are afraid of me then.”

I know why GC challenges everything and everyone. It gives him a feeling of power. Which means he wants real power, and he might get us in trouble so he can please Scar. I want to throw the flashlight's beam on his face and ask him to shut up, but I have to control myself. “I am not
scared of you. You are one of us.” Roshan speaks slowly and clearly.

“How can I be? I am not part of your circle.”

“You are. You listen to our
kahanis
,” Sahil says.

“No I don't.”

“You argue and challenge them,
na
?”

“When you tell stories I can't shut off my ears or walk out of here, can I?”

It is my chance to speak up. “Is it so bad to share stories? We live, work, and eat together, so why not share our
kahanis
?”

“I want to keep my stories to myself. I don't want someone telling them to Boss.”

“I will never do that,
yaar
,” Amar says.

“You are too young to know what is good for you. Stay out of it or you will get in trouble with Boss,” GC says.

“If you complain against Amar or any of us to Boss, he might give you a little more tea or a spoonful of rice, but that is all. Tomorrow he might favor someone else, turn against you, and starve you,” I say.

“We must stick together,” Sahil says.

He doesn't ask if he is right by asking,
sacch na
? at the end.

Silence follows Sahil's words until Amar breaks it. “We are like a family. Will you tell us more about your brothers and sisters, Roshan?” Amar reminds me of Naren, innocent and trusting. It is nice that he asks Roshan to
continue, because it takes away the tension.

“I don't re-re-remember much about my two sisters except what I told you. By the time I got a little older, th-th-they were already working on a farm and left before the sun came out. They didn't get back until after dark. My younger br-brother couldn't walk properly, so he stayed close to my aai, and the other two were too young for me to know.”

“But you said there were eight of you. This only makes six,” I say.

“You are so good at counting,” Amar says. “If someday I make a lot of money, I will give it to you to count.”

“You won't make any money. Not now, not ever. None of us will,” GC mumbles under his breath. I am glad Amar has not heard him.

“M-m-my two brothers di…di…died before they were one year old. I-I-I don't remember much about them,” Roshan says.

“
Yaar
, how can you not rem—”

“St-sto-sto-stop calling me
yaar
, Amar, and st-st-stop bothering me!” Roshan shouts. “I am not yo-yo-your…” He breaks down crying.

“No more stories,” GC declares. “Stories are rubbish and a waste of time. We were fine without them before. If you don't stop I'll tell Boss that Gopal has a flashlight and all of you stay up late every night sharing
kahanis
.”

“If you tell our secret, we will…” Sahil can't come up with anything. Amar covers his face with his hands.

Quick, think of something to argue about,
I urge myself.

“So no stories, right?” GC's voice swells with pride and triumph.

“No more bickering. Let's go to sleep,” Thick Fingers says.

I pick up the flashlight and flick it off. The story circle is done. When we stretch out on our sacks and everyone is done shuffling their arms and legs, Roshan's soft cry goes on. The moonlight filters between the window bars and in its light I see Amar stroking Roshan's hair.

“My aai used to rub oil in my hair,” Sahil whispers. “Except I didn't call her Aai.”

This is the first time Sahil has talked about his mother. If I know what he called his mother I might be able to tell where he is from. “What did you call her?” I whisper back to him.

“
Maa
. I loved going with her to our shop because it smelled of hot chili and turmeric.”

Not only is Sahil remembering his mother, but he is also telling me about their shop. It seems like his family was not poor like mine. “When was that?” As I wait for his answer my heart flutters like the wings of a swift ready to take off from a cliff.

“When I was younger than Amar.” There is silence for a minute and then, “She had a long braid that was thick and dark. Darker than mine because I used to put
the end of her braid on my head and say, ‘Maa, look how black your hair is.'”

I touch his hand. “What about your baba?” I ask.

He shakes his head and turns away from me.

I should've listened patiently and not asked about his baba. When I close my eyes I imagine Sahil as a five-year-old boy tugging his maa's braid and putting it on top of his curls. How did Sahil get here? Where is his family? Sahil is breathing heavily. Now that he talked about his past, maybe he will dream about his home and his mother, and again he might share a little more of his story.

We must stick together. We are like a family.
Sahil's and Amar's words swirl in my head. We stay together and we are connected, not only by our work and our imprisonment in this place, but also by our stories and our feelings. If we can comfort one another, we can be a family. But GC has threatened us in such a way that I wonder if we would ever be able to share stories again.

I turn on my left side, away from Sahil, and squeeze my eyes shut tight to imagine Aai's round face. It is hard to bring her into focus. Tears roll from my right eye, trickle down from the bridge of my nose, and mix with tears from my left eye.

It is difficult to muffle my sobs, but I don't want GC to hear. I shove the end of my jute sack in my mouth and let the raw, itchy fabric dull the sound. But I can't do
anything for my heart that aches like it has been twisted into
murga
position. Forever.

 

Before I know it, I am walking to the pond behind Mohan and Shiva. It is the middle of monsoon and everything has turned parrot green. The scent of earth is strong. I try to touch my friends, but my hands are bound by something invisible. I try to speak to them and the words stick in my throat. My legs move, but they don't take me closer to them. Something is wrong. I can't touch what I want, say what I want, and move where I want. I have lost the will to act the way I want to.

Mohan and Shiva disappear, and in their places are Thick Fingers, Amar, Sahil, Roshan, and GC talking among themselves as if I am not there. Don't they care? I kick my arms and legs and gather all my energy, and force my voice to come out.