Krishen and the dhabba man walk over from the other side of the stall.
“Hey,” snaps the stallholder, slapping the boy on the back of the head. “Do I pay you to fight with my customers?”
The boy scowls and returns to his place by the hot oil.
“Kids!” says Krishen, climbing back into his truck. “No more getting into trouble, eh?” He laughs. “That road will take you toward Galapoor.”
“Thanks for the food and the lift,” says Jeevan. We wave him off as the truck pulls away.
A look of worry appears in Jeevan’s eyes as we set off in the opposite direction.
We walk off-road to avoid other travelers, but try to stay as close to the road as we can to keep our bearings. We’re constantly looking over our shoulders. The path dips and bends, sometimes coming near to the road and at other times taking us away from where we want to go.
“It’s getting darker now,” I say. “I think we could walk along the edge of the road without being recognized.”
We stumble down the gritty bank and begin walking along the tarmac in single file.
Suddenly we’re caught in the glare of icy-white headlights, and a screech of brakes sends fear spiraling through me. I scrunch my eyes and make out the ghostly silhouette of a police car.
“Asha, run!”
We scramble back up the steep bank, kicking rocks behind us.
“Wait!” one of the police officers shouts.
I can hear heavy breathing as the men struggle to keep up.
We don’t stop until we reach a clump of trees way above the road.
“Quick,” cries Jeevan. “Up there.”
I grasp the branch, my hands shaking, and hoist myself into the pine tree, Jeevan scrambling up behind.
“Where are you?” a distant voice calls out of the darkness, followed by a faint flashlight beam. “Come down. You’re not in trouble. Your parents are worried.”
The beam gets brighter and my heart pumps harder as it comes to a stop right under the tree.
I grip the branch even tighter.
Jeevan takes hold of my other hand, but he daren’t speak. My heart is thumping furiously, fear and confusion filling my thoughts. Part of me wants to climb down, to go home to safety. But I know I have to finish this journey I’ve started, or there won’t be a home for me there anymore.
Eventually the flashlight beam passes. We listen to the footsteps fading, an engine starting up again somewhere nearby. Finally we risk climbing down from the tree.
We continue along on lonely mountain tracks, crossing rivers swollen with rain, sleeping rough wherever we can with hardly anything to eat but wild fruit. We’ve added days to our journey trying to stay hidden—but there’s no doubt in my mind: We mustn’t get caught.
Our progress to Kasare is painfully slow. For the next few days we pick our way along rough, half-made paths, trying to keep the road in sight as much as possible. We shelter under trees and scavenge what food we can from villages and fields, and refill our water bottles at every opportunity.
My stomach feels like it has a huge hole in it that will never be full again and all I can think of is how fantastic it would be to have a whole pile of Ma’s fresh naan that puff out steam when you break into them, stuffed with milky paneer, instead of eating only the tiny berries we’ve found.
“I’m starving. Have you got anything else to eat in your bag?” asks Jeevan, stopping by a tree, his cheekbones making sharp hollows in his face.
“If only.” I stop beside him, my legs shaky. “There aren’t even any chickens about. At least around Galapoor we could steal a few eggs—I know they were disgusting raw but they kept us going.”
“Yeah … but that was ages ago.” He twists to face me and the sudden shock of seeing the way his collarbone juts from his T-shirt makes me wish I had something to give him.
“Just think, when we get to the temple we can have a pilgrim’s meal.”
“When we get to the temple … That’s what you keep saying!”
“It’s not my fault … I’m hungry too, you know!”
As each night falls and the moon gets smaller, it reminds me that I don’t have much time left to find Papa—it’s only five weeks until Divali, until Ma gives up on our family and decides to go.
Even though I’ve stuffed leaves into my shoes, my blisters have turned into bloodied scabs and rub even more. Sharp stones push through the worn soles, stabbing at my feet, and my swollen ankle is covered in a multicolored bruise.
“We’ve already been traveling a whole week,” I say, dragging myself along the worn path that leads to the temple at Kasare and then on to Zandapur. “Why is it taking so long?”
“I’ve had enough,” says Jeevan, breathing quickly, giving a noisy cough.
“We have to keep moving. The police won’t have given up—they’ll be looking for us even up here.”
“Look,” says Jeevan. “The weather’s changing.”
I stare into the sky, pale and laden with snow, and feel so tiny against the towering mountains ahead, their never-ending steep slopes stretching toward the clouds like stalagmites.
“I can’t believe how cold it is,” I say, puffing hot breath into my hands and pulling at my sleeves. “Look how the countryside’s changing too. Even the grass is hurting my feet, it’s so dry and coarse.”
“I need to rest,” says Jeevan. “I’m worn out. Let’s stop a minute and look at the map.”
We sit together on the grass and he pulls it from his bag, spreading it out on the ground. “I think this is where we are now.” He puts his finger just below Kasare.
“Well, do you know, or do you just think?” My question sounds more spiky than I mean it to.
“I’m doing my best to navigate. You can look at the map as well, you
