The truck stops and a man with a thick curly mustache sticks his head out the window.
“Want a lift?”
Relief washes over me. “Yes,” I shout, trying to get my voice heard over the roar of the truck.
The man swings the door open and we scramble up.
“Oooh,” says the man, laughing. “With green eyes like yours you could be in the movies!”
I lower my gaze and look out the window, ignoring the man’s comment … I need to blend in.
Dangling from the mirror is a picture of the black goddess Kali. She’s surrounded by a fringe of silver tinsel, to bring the driver luck. On the dashboard is a photo of his family in a fluffy pink frame.
“Where are you two lads off to?” he asks.
“We’re going to see our auntie. We lost our money and got kicked off the train. She lives just outside Galapoor on the road to Kasare,” Jeevan says, squeezing my arm discreetly.
The driver nods and rams his foot on the accelerator. As the truck speeds off I look in the side mirror at the road behind us, the dirty gray fumes pumping against the blue sky as we shoot toward the town.
“I’m Krishen. Pleased to meet you,” he says. “I’m not going as far as Galapoor … that OK?”
“Anywhere close is fine,” says Jeevan.
I’m happy to let him do the talking. I don’t want to draw any more attention to myself and even though I’m deepening my voice it might still make him suspicious.
Loud music with a heavy drumbeat and a strong rhythm blares inside the truck.
“Latest movie,” says the driver, pausing from singing along badly. “You know, my cousin works in Bollywood, driving famous actors around. Last week he had Shah Rukh Khan in his car.” He bangs the dashboard as if it’s a drum and the picture of Kali bobs along as if she’s in the movie as well. I nudge Jeevan’s foot, and we both giggle.
We climb even higher, leaving the terraces behind, the road now lined with wild fruit trees, stretching out against the horizon. Every now and then we pass small buildings at the roadside with handwritten signs for chai and coconut juice, pakoray and hot potato dhosay. The truck hugs the tight bends upward, teetering against the crumbling edge of road, scaling the mountain, farther into the high Himalayas.
We stop suddenly and I wake with a dry mouth and a tongue that won’t move to ask where we are.
“First stop, dhabba stall,” says Krishen. “Galapoor’s not far now.”
“We haven’t got much money,” I say, trying not to think about the lovely food they’ll have at the stall.
“He owes me a favor, this dhabba man. Forget the money this time, OK?”
Jeevan licks his lips, looking famished. “Thanks,” he shouts, opening the door and jumping onto the ground.
I notice that the stall has a rack of cards with stamps already on them. “Let’s send a postcard home.”
“It’ll be good to let them know that at least we’re safe,” says Jeevan.
“And by the time they get it, we’ll be miles away. I think we can afford one.”
I find my purse, give the stallholder a coin for the card, and borrow his pen. I’m so hot I pull off my hoodie, wrap it around my waist, and sit on a rock to begin writing.
I hand the card to Jeevan so he can write his message.
“There’s a postbox here,” he says, finishing the card off with a row of kisses and pushing it through the slot.
“Best pakoray this side of Galapoor,” says a small, wiry boy working at the dhabba stall. He stands on a box so he can reach the stove. He looks directly at us, frowns, then scoops up fresh pakora batter and plops it into the wide frying pan, making the oil crackle. Steam whooshes up as the pakoray turn a mouthwatering golden color and he adds them to the heaps already piled high on a brass tray.
“I’ve been told to give you some for free,” says the boy, handing us a bag brimming with food. “How come you two are traveling by yourselves anyway?” The boy steps closer and even though I’m looking down at the ground, he pushes his face right into mine and eyes Jeevan suspiciously.
I turn my back to him and bite into a crunchy pakora.
“Me and my brother are going to meet our auntie,” says Jeevan.
“That’s a funny brother,” the boy says. “Pretty, isn’t he?”
Jeevan suddenly turns very red—the boy’s guessed I’m not a boy at all, but neither of us knows what to say.
Jeevan stands between the boy and me.
“What’s wrong with you?” he says to Jeevan. “I bet you like her, don’t you?”
I walk a few paces back, feeling my cheeks turning more crimson than Jeevan’s.
Anger puffs out of Jeevan like hot steam as he rushes right up to the boy and pushes him hard. “Don’t talk about her.”
The boy turns his fists into tight balls. “I’ll fight you if you want!” He pushes Jeevan back.
“Hey!” Jeevan spins around, getting ready to throw a punch, but the boy gets there first, swinging his fist into Jeevan’s chin and knocking him to the ground. The boy crouches over him and draws back his fist again.
“Get off him!” I cry, pushing the boy hard. “He’s fought off bigger men than you can imagine! Now, get out of our way and leave us alone.” I turn my back on him, offer Jeevan my hand, and help him up.
“What an idiot,” says Jeevan, brushing off the dust.
The boy is simmering with rage. “I know where I’ve seen you before—they put out a call for you this morning, on the local TV news. They said you were runaways. Not such an idiot now, am I?” He’s already pulling a phone from his pocket.
I clasp my hands to my mouth. “Oh no!” I cry, my insides full of fireworks. “We have to go before he calls the police.” I
