Read Online Boys without Names by Kashmira Sheth - Free Book Online

would have been enough for the day if I were a rabbit or a squirrel, but my stomach still has a hunger hole in it.
    â€œThe women said we could use their kerosene stove.”
    While Aai cooks, one of the men tells me, “We found a job in the factory, so we will be leaving tomorrow.”
    â€œWhere is the factory? Do they have more jobs?” I ask, wanting to know.
    The man is quiet for a moment. “They need more people, but they only want men who can lift heavy loads. You’re too young, and I assume your baba is too old.” He continues, “I heard there was rain in the south, which means it will arrive here in a day or two. This is a low area and the water collects very fast. After tonight it won’t be safe to sleep here.”
    Aai overhears and says, “Tomorrow night we will be with my brother.”

eight
    B y the time I wake up in the morning our neighbors are gone and have taken all their things.
    Aai goes up to the station to look for Baba. I wait under the bridge with Naren and Sita. “What if Aai doesn’t find Baba?” Sita asks.
    â€œThen Baba will find her,” Naren says.
    Sita looks at me. “Do you think so, Gopal?”
    I don’t know what I think. All I know is I want them to be quiet. “How would you like to hear about a giant who lived in a cave?”
    â€œNo, no,” Sita says. “That giant lived under a bridge. Just like this one.”
    â€œWhy would he do that?”
    â€œBecause he is the one holding the bridge up. Don’t you know?”
    â€œYou’re right,” I say. “But I have a problem with the story. The giant can’t move because he’s holding the bridge.”
    â€œIt is a moving bridge,” Naren says.
    â€œYes, moving bridge, moving water, moving world. Everything moving. Round and round.”
    The twins hold hands and spin.
    And that is when we hear the roar. It is a low groan, like the growl of a baby giant’s belly, except it comes from the sky. Naren and Sita stop and point upward. “Come rain come, come rain come.” The second rumble is deeper, louder, and longer, like the growl of a baba giant’s belly. Naren and Sita run to me. In the distance I see Aai, with flailing arms, coming down the slope.
    â€œThe rain! It will be here. Hurry, we must leave this place,” she says as she grabs the cotton bag.
    Another rumble. It feels closer. The wind picks up and Aai’s sari flutters wildly.
    Aai hands Naren and Sita the cloth bag. “Hold one strap each and start walking.” She takes the heavy jute one with pots and pans, and I take the one with the bedding. Going uphill is harder with our things, but we manage—until the rain pours down. I’d never seen such a moving wall of water in our village. We are soaking wet by the time we get under the overhang of the station.
    Even though it is warm I shiver in my wet clothes. Aai takes her faded sari from the bag, wrings it out, and opens it up. “As soon as my sari dries out you can wipeyourselves with it,” she says.
    Aai’s sari is so old that it is onionskin thin and will dry out in no time.
    The rain falls and falls and falls. Soon there are puddles everywhere. Out of nowhere the sidewalk in front of the station is covered with people carrying mostly black umbrellas. There are fewer people and fewer vendors, and the footpaths look wide. The handful of vendors that remain there have moved closer to the stores so that the overhangs of the roofs above can protect them. The girls selling buttons and magazines are gone.
    I can’t believe it is the same crowded, hazy, burning-hot place of yesterday. A car drives by a little too fast and splashes the people on the footpaths. Naren and Sita laugh out loud. In front of us, a woman gets out of a taxi. She tries to open her umbrella, but it is stuck. The twins cover their mouths with their hands to muffle their giggles.
    Aai passes around her