“If you really tried,” says Jeevan, “maybe you could actually make stuff happen … like maybe you could force that man to give me his paratha.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Jeevan. I wish I could control things,” I say, yawning. “But for now I think I’m too tired.”
The next time I open my eyes, there are cars, cows, and people everywhere. Outside, the light is fading, turning into evening. “Where are we?”
“We’re in Zandapur,” says Jeevan. “Come on, sleepyhead,” he laughs. “You look like you’re still dreaming.”
“Yes,” I say slowly, getting out of the seat. “Something was just about to happen … but everything disappeared.” I follow him down the aisle, trying to remember. “There were children … lots and lots of—”
“Don’t worry about the dream now,” Jeevan interrupts me, and we step into the busy bus station full of people laughing, talking, shouting. There are so many signs and everyone’s moving so quickly.
Jeevan grabs hold of my arm and pulls me back onto the sidewalk just before a bus spewing smoke out of the back rattles by. “This isn’t the village,” he says. “We’ve got to have our wits about us—that bus nearly squashed you.”
I take a deep breath and concentrate.
“Which way is the right way”—Jeevan looks confused—“when we don’t know where we’re going?”
“I do know where we’re going,” I say. “Connaught Place. And I want to get there as soon as I can.” We’re here at last, so close to Papa, and I let my heart give a little leap as I imagine seeing him again, but a knot of fear follows close behind—I’ll soon find out why he stopped writing.
A youngish man is looking at the timetable, chewing gum. He spits on the floor and spins around to face us. “Looking for somewhere to stay? My uncle’s got a hotel near here. Cheap. Good for boys like you.”
I lower my voice. “We’re meeting my papa here. He’s coming any minute.”
The man looks us up and down and kicks a plastic cup. “Are you sure?” he asks, dialing a number before putting a small phone to his ear. “Very cheap.”
“We’re sure.” I pull Jeevan away. “We’ll ask someone else in a minute,” I whisper. “He was really creepy.”
We hurry through a dark archway that opens into a tunnel leading away from the station.
“I want to find Connaught Place before nightfall.” The tunnel is gloomy and smells worse than old fish. “The sooner we find Papa, the sooner we can get back to Moormanali. There won’t be a moon tomorrow, you know. That means it’s four weeks until Divali.”
“It won’t take us that long to find your papa and get home in time,” says Jeevan. “Maybe your ma won’t even have replied to your uncle Neel yet.”
I feel excited. “Do you think we’ll all be back together for my birthday?”
“Yes,” says Jeevan. “Definitely.”
I buzz with fear as we walk through the dark tunnel toward the center of Zandapur, empty wrappers and plastic bags whirling toward us on the wind. I pause to wipe grit from my eyes.
A little girl sits in the shadow of the arches, holding out a dirt-crusted hand. “Paisa, paisa,” she calls to us in a pleading voice. Her eyes are huge and dark, and tangled hair hangs in clumps around her shoulders.
“That girl’s only about Rohan and Roopa’s age, maybe even younger. Where’s her family?” I feel so angry. “It’s so wrong for her to be doing this.”
“I know,” says Jeevan. “But this is how some families survive in the city.”
People dressed in smart suits and fancy saris walk past without even glancing at her. “Surely they could spare at least one coin!” I take one from my purse and place it in her hand.
“Thank you,” she says, giving us a small smile.
As we turn into an even busier street, a giant poster surrounded by bright lights beams down at us. A banner across the top says:
But underneath it I spot something else. “A map,” I say, pulling Jeevan toward it. “Let’s find Connaught Place.”
The map is a confusion of streets that crisscross each other. “Here’s the bus station,” says Jeevan. “But I can’t see Connaught Place.”
“It has to be here somewhere,” I say, studying it in frustration.
“Unless it’s not right in the center,” says Jeevan.
A group of men come walking toward us, drinking from dark bottles, arguing and yelling at each other.
“They look like real losers,” I say, pulling Jeevan closer and linking our arms.
“Don’t worry … We’ll ask someone … Let’s cross over,” he says, pulling me closer.
We dodge mustard-yellow taxis and bullock carts to reach the opposite sidewalk.
A sudden clap of thunder cracks above the noise of the traffic, and it starts pouring down.
“Quick, let’s go in there.” We head toward a café with a bright sign in the window showing a boy eating something delicious. “We’ll be out of the rain and can sit down and decide how to find Papa.” Jeevan still looks thin from his fever—I have to make sure he eats, so he doesn’t get sick again.
“Yeah … I could do with some food,” he says, leaning against the doors to open them.
Inside, the café is full of young people sitting at small tables, laughing and munching on round bread with something stuffed inside.
“It’s called ‘fast food,’ ” says Jeevan, reading an electric sign behind the counter.
A sweet, oily smell floats through the air. “Maybe you eat here after you’ve been fasting?”
“Yeah, could be.”
“It says two for the price of one.” I notice a handwritten poster next to the counter. I peer inside my purse, bubbling with excitement. “That means we can eat something and still have a bit of money
