Boys without Names Read Online Free PDF Page B

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.

five
    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.
    â€œI don’t know who to ask how to get to Jama’s house. People here are all in a hurry,” Baba says.
    â€œLet’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 backpocket, 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.
    â€œNo, 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.
    â€œIf 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.
    â€œWe’re tired,” Sita cries.
    â€œWe’re thirsty,” Naren pipes in.
    â€œWait 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.
    â€œThere 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 thecity we must learn how to weave through the traffic.
    I move a little forward