We’re not allowed to stop or rest; we keep looking for wires, cans, anything metal from the dump, and stuff it into the sacks on our backs.
The sun disappears behind the tower blocks and the gray sky starts to darken. There’ll be no moon tonight, and I remember how each Divali we celebrate at home is always on a moonless night. We still have four weeks. A pair of flickering floodlights turn on, and I realize we’ll be working for hours yet.
A few hours later, I brush myself off, wipe the sludge off a tin, and examine it closely in the semidarkness. “Jeevan, look,” I whisper.
“What are you going on about?” says Jeevan, looking confused. “We’ve got more important things to worry about than some silly old tin.”
“No, Jeevan.” I shove it under his nose. “There’s a lamagaia on it.” I think of Nanijee straightaway, convinced that I was meant to find it. “It says ‘Himalayan Tea.’ Maybe it’s from one of those plantations near Galapoor and it’s been sent as a sign to keep us strong.”
Jeevan pushes the hair off his eyes to get a better look. “That is quite a coincidence … I think you could be right.” He sounds animated, and for the first time he might actually believe it’s a sign.
I slip the tin into my pocket and think of the spirit bird that watched over our journey, feel for Nanijee’s pendant, and plead for it to keep me strong … I will find Papa in time and won’t let anything stop me from getting out of here.
Just when I think they’re going to make us work all through the night, the high-pitched siren wails again, and everyone finally stops. My back aches and my legs feel like they might give way as we shuffle toward the crumbling old building where I spent the night.
My arms are so weak that I can barely lift them but I’m not giving in—I have to get out and find Papa. We have to make a plan.
The guards herd us like cattle through a dimly lit corridor, and I try to count how many of us there are … around fifty, I think. Right at the end they push us into a room reeking of soiled, damp bedding and lit by a gloomy, bare light bulb, and they lock us in.
The room is just slightly bigger than our cowshed at home and has steps leading up to a platform to make another floor, so they can squeeze everyone in.
“Over here,” says Jeevan, shoving past the crowd of bodies in the semidarkness, stepping over the children too tired to move. “Let’s sit next to Attica and Sami.”
Suddenly the door swings open. Someone throws in a tray full of rotia, drops a container of water onto the floor, turns the heavy lock, and leaves.
Everyone rushes over to the food, pushing and shoving others out of the way. Jeevan joins in, elbowing his way to the tray.
“Here, I got a few,” he says, fighting his way back through the scrum. “They’re a bit stale but at least it’s food.”
“It’s everyone for themselves here, isn’t it?” I say, taking the hard bread from him.
I get the shriveled mango seedling out of my pocket and examine it. I gently trickle some water onto it, close my eyes, and say a silent prayer, willing it to recover.
“Look!” I show it to Jeevan. “It’s getting better already. There’s a new shoot if you look closely.”
“Where? I can’t see anything.”
“Jeevan, you have to believe in things if you want them to happen.” I put the seedling back in my pocket. We sit with our backs against the wall, dipping roti into a cup of water to soften it. The other children are a tangle of jutting ribs and filth-streaked hair, grabbing at each other, trying to get a bit more food. Attica and Sami smell terrible, and their cheeks are hollow and sunken … This is what will happen to us if we don’t get out.
“I’m not staying here,” I say, a growl throbbing in my throat.
Neither Sami nor Attica speaks, they just look at each other.
Attica retrieves a stub of candle and a small box of matches from behind a loose brick in the wall and lights the candle. The others in the room fall silent and, out of curiosity, I suppose, gradually gather around us.
“Has anyone ever tried to get out?” I ask. They still don’t say anything. “Well, have they?”
Sami speaks first. “Don’t think about it. You can’t get out of here. They lock us up and keep us in order with the whips … and worse.”
I look at Jeevan and imagine the beating he must have taken. “They don’t have a right to keep any of us here,” I say. “If we work together we could do it.”
“Asha.” It’s Attica who speaks this time. “You probably think we’re cowards, but we were all like you in the beginning … We think Sami’s been here longest but there’s no way of telling and every day is like the next. If you make any trouble, they just get rid of you.”
“I can remember most of you arriving, and the ones who disappeared,” says Sami. “There are plenty of children on the streets who will trust someone with the promise of a warm bed and food … You came, didn’t you?”
“Asha didn’t want to—” starts Jeevan.
I interrupt him. “Yes … You’re right, Sami, we did, but we don’t have to stay.”
“There are a few hidden holes under the high wall,” says Attica, taking a bite of roti and looking at Sami and the others. “A while ago a group of kids decided to make a run for it. They watched the routine of the guards and then one day they tried, while we had water break.”
“They got caught,” says
