Boys without Names (21 page)

T
he day of Diwali comes and goes without Scar, policemen, or rescue. The only good part is that Scar has left some bread and lemon pickles for us. We eat that, banana chips, and then have sweets and enjoy a Scar-free festival.

“What should we do with the empty sweets box?” GC asks that night.

“We have to hide it,” Barish says.

We all know that. The question is, where? The room is so small and the box is too big. If Scar finds the box, not only will he beat us up, but he'll know we have banded together. “Let's cut it up and throw the pieces out the window,” Sahil suggests.

Cutting up the box makes sense, but I don't like the idea of a pile of red cardboard pieces right under our
window. Scar might notice it when he goes to cut
nimba
branches.

“We can stuff it back in one of the jute bags,” Amar says.

“No. That is dangerous. Scar has been sick and occupied by holidays, so it has worked for the past few days. The box has to vanish,” GC says.

I agree with him.

“We-we can burn it,” Roshan suggests. I look at him and he avoids my gaze by looking away.

“That is dangerous too,” I say. Sahil nervously taps the wooden bench. It gives me an idea. “Let's cut it up and stick the pieces under our benches.”

Sahil mixes up a batch of glue while we cut up the box with a knife. We turn over our benches and stick the pieces right onto the underside of the benches. The box disappears. Outfoxing Scar makes us giddy and we snicker. Sahil asks me if he can keep the string. When I say yes, he slips it in his pocket.

It has been a good Diwali, but I can't sleep. I shouldn't be having fun with my friends. My family must miss me. I wonder if Baba is alive and back with Aai, Naren, Sita, and Jama. Maybe they are still looking for me, or by this time they think I am dead. I wonder if they are still in the city. I hope they haven't gone back to our village.

 

The next morning GC's eyes are red as if he has chopped up a dozen onions. I wonder if he stayed awake last night.
“What's the matter with you? Don't get sick on me,” Scar warns GC when we are down for tea.

“I'm fine, Boss,” GC says. “Some people are worried about their health, and I want them to know I won't get them sick.” When he says the last part, he looks at me.

Scar gets GC's message and gives him a nod. “As long as you do your work well, I'm happy.”

“I will. You can always count on me, Boss,” GC says smoothly.

GC is smart and sleek. With this short exchange he has told Scar that our group is divided. I grin.

“What are you so happy about?” Scar barks.

Quickly, I bend my head, stare at my feet, and clench my fist to stay quiet.

“No tea for you. Go work.”

I climb up the ladder. Relief spreads through my body as I get away from him. It is better for me not to show him my face. That way I can't get in more trouble with him than I already am.

I work and think. If Sweets-Man has talked to the police they might have not been able to come because of Diwali, but they might come today and rescue us. I must behave as normally as I can until then.

Aai used to tell a story about a mighty tree and a tiny twig. The mighty tree used to laugh at and tease the tiny twig, saying it was going to blow away when a storm came. The twig would just bend in reply. After each storm, the twig looked miserable, but not the tree. It lost a
few leaves and small branches, but it still looked tall and regal. Then one day a huge storm came. It brought winds that whipped,
zumzumzum zum zum
,
zumzumzum
,
zum zum
. The twig doubled over until the winds died out and it survived, but the great tree got uprooted and fell. If I want to live, I must act like a twig. Even if Scar shouts or hits me, I must stay calm, because the most important thing is to get out of here. Then I can be with my family again!

As I think of my family, I realize that my friends don't have families in Mumbai. I wonder what will happen to them. I hope the police will take care of them and help them find their families.

Once the other boys come up the ladder, Scar turns on the TV loud. We suppress laughter when we hear his off-key singing. But then his singing stops, and it is clear that Scar is upset. Even with the TV on, we hear him swear into the phone. He shouts such filthy things into the phone that I wonder if the person on the other end is using similar language. Then, suddenly, he turns off the TV and claps us downstairs.

The first thing Scar tells us is, “Take a bath one at a time, wash your hair, and scrub yourselves well.” He points to Sahil. “Make sure your fingers and nails are glue-free. Don't mix more glue today.”

We're so surprised that none of us moves. “Hurry up, cockroaches! I don't have all day.”

It is such a luxury to have a whole bucket of water. I
wash my hair and scrub my body. I dry myself and put my clothes on. I am about to come out of the bathroom when I hear Scar's phone ring. I stay inside and press my ear to the door.

“You will like the boys. They are clean, healthy, and good workers. I'll bring them tomorrow morning,” Scar says.

I lean against the wall so I don't fall. Scar is going to take us away from here. It is too late to save us. Someone must have tipped off Scar about our rescue.

When I gently open the door and peek, Scar is facing the other way. I walk toward the ladder without making noise, but I avoid looking like I am sneaking. If he stops me, my sweaty forehead, the prickled hair on my arms, my trembling knees will give me away. Once upstairs, I try to listen to Scar's phone conversations. It is difficult because he doesn't talk loudly like he did earlier.

My friends' wet hair shines and their spotless faces sparkle in the bright light. They don't know Scar has planned to send us away. If I had not said a word to the Sweets-Man this wouldn't have happened.

We are doomed.

For lunch, Scar gives us
dal
, rice, and two
rotis
each. It looks like he wants to fatten us up instantly.

“Hurry up and finish,” he says.

“Yes, Boss,” GC replies.

The phone rings. My heart jumps. Scar straightens up as he says, “Yes, I have made all the arrangements. The
project will be done. No need to worry.”

He clicks off the phone and gives each one of us a lingering look. “Make sure you stay clean.” Clap! “Get up and finish those frames.”

We stuff the last few bites into our mouths and go back to working in our smelly space.

I can't stop my mind from bouncing from one thing to another, and my anxiety grows until it is as tall as the buildings I saw from the bridge. I end up with one dreadful, miserable thought. If the police don't come tonight before Scar takes us somewhere else, I might be hundreds of miles away from here by tomorrow. I will be forever lost to my family, and they to me, unless we can plan an attack on Scar tonight. Then, when he comes tomorrow to take us away, we can beat him with the bead trays and tie him up.

Tonight I must share my plan.

Scar's phone rings and I press my ear down on the floor to listen.

Sahil stops rocking and Amar's eyes fill with questions.

I concentrate on Scar's talk.

“But they said tomorrow. Must be some mistake!”

Pause.

“I will hide them.”

No more talk. Just as I sit back up, a loud clap thunders. We go down. Scar's expression is grim. “Listen, boys. Use the bathroom quickly if you have to. Then go
upstairs and stay there. When people come to make a delivery don't make a sound. If you do, you're as good as dead, because I will send you away with them to work in factories far away.” There is a steadiness in his voice that makes me believe he would keep his word.

We use the bathroom and get back to work. He takes the fan and the pail full of
nimba
stems down. Then he removes the ladder.

Soon, we hear voices and something being dropped on the floor. Then the door shuts, the ladder moves, and Scar pokes his head up. “Follow me,” he says.

When we go down, the place is full of large cotton bags. Colorful fabric peeks out of them. “Move these packages up,” Scar orders. As we transfer them up, a sleeve sticks out or a leg of pants flops through. Maybe Scar is going to start a new business and find new kids to stitch buttons or hem garments.

“Put them all around the walls and leave a small place for you in the middle of the room,” Scar says. We move our wooden benches to the center of the room and put the cloth bags around three sides. “You stay up and work, and if you hear voices, don't make a sound. You understand?”

I fight back tears. The group has become quiet.

We keep on working in silence. It feels like we are trapped in a hole. It is difficult to work with all these bags towering around us. I keep banging into someone's knees or an elbow. Our own stale breath suffocates us.

The sun will set soon and Scar will leave. If the police don't come today, it will be too late. With all these bags it will be too difficult to attack Scar tomorrow when he comes up. We are doomed.

 

“Gopal, put away your work and come down. Right now,” Scar orders.

I stash my bead tray and go down. Before I know what is happening Scar stuffs my mouth with rags that he uses to wipe the frames. The taste of glue is horrid. I want to scream, but instead I gag. Then Scar wraps my mouth shut with a strip of material, ties my arms with strips of jute, and tells me to stand in the bathroom so no one can see me when they come down the ladder. One by one he calls the others and ties their mouths and hands up. All this takes only a few minutes.

Scar has planned this perfectly, and now I know there is no way out for us.

When Scar is done gagging and tying us up, he tells us to go up the ladder. It is difficult to climb with our hands tied behind our backs, but we manage to do it.

Once we sit down cross-legged on the floor he ties our legs up. “Don't move an inch. If one of you so much as squeaks, you are in trouble.” Scar spreads his arms wide. “Big trouble.”

We are huddled with our arms and legs tied and folded, our knees and elbows poking each other, our mouths stuffed and wrapped shut. There is no place to
shift without the sacks tumbling down and smothering us. I am scared and soaked in perspiration. Amar's eyes are tightly closed, Sahil has a vacant look, Roshan's head is limp, Barish rests his head on his folded-up knees. GC looks from one sack to another as if he is not sure that this is for real. My eyes follow Scar.

“Stop staring at me. You evil boy!” he screams.

Oh, how I wish I had a real evil power to ruin him.

Scar unscrews the naked yellow bulb. Then he fills up the space he was standing in with more sacks. The room is pitch-black.

The ladder moves away.

 

I try to wiggle my hands free.

Even though it is not my fault that we are tied up, I feel guilty. Maybe it was a mistake to ask Sweets-Man for help. He must have talked to the police and someone has tipped off Scar. Now we will be scattered. Maybe the police will show up after Scar takes us away tomorrow. The same few thoughts spin in my head.

I have no luck in freeing my hands.

It seems like we have been trapped for hours, but it has only been a few minutes.

Finally, there are voices outside the building. Footsteps rush, and someone knocks. Then silence. Silence like the pitch-dark night in this hole.

Then voices float up. Two or three people are talking all at once.

“Is this the only space? What is upstairs?” I hear a stern voice.

“Nothing, sir, it is a storage area,” Scar says. His voice sounds like a screechy, trapped monkey. The police are here to rescue us! Tears trickle down my cheeks.

“Let's have a look.”

“It is just clothes and it is quite stuffy up there. I think it would be a waste of your…”

“Move the ladder.”

“Yes, sir. I will help you. Please have something to drink. What can I get you? Tea?” Scar says.

“We don't have time for all that nonsense. Are you going to show us what is upstairs or not?” The voice is not loud, but the words are uttered with force and anger.

The ladder moves. I hold my breath.

“Where are the lights? Flip on the switch.” Someone is at the top of the ladder.

The switch turns on and off, but nothing happens. “There is no light there because I only get things down during the daytime. No reason to have a light there. As you see, there is nothing but our merchandise.”

“I can barely see, but he is right. There is nothing but sacks full of clothes, Inspector,” someone says.

“Are you sure?” the stern voice floats up.

“We're here,” I shout.

No words come out.

“Come and look, Inspector.”

There are sounds of footsteps on the ladder.

“Anyone in there? Speak up,” the inspector's voice booms.

“Yes, we are here. We're here,” I scream inside. No one hears me because I am voiceless, drenched in perspiration, shaking.

“Let's move these things out,” Inspector says.

My palms are still bound. I try to rub them together, but it only makes a dull shuffle. Someone else is coming up the ladder.

The strip starts to come loose and I can move my hands a bit more. I am almost there.

Someone shifts things around and a bag tumbles down.

“He is right, Inspector. There is nothing but clothes here.”

What if they leave without checking? It is difficult to breathe, but I have to get my hands free. Harder. Push. Pull. Loosen the bonds as fast as I can.

“Accha, chala.”
I hear disappointment in the stern voice.

One of my hands slips free of the knot and I wiggle out my flashlight, flip it on, and point the beam onto the ceiling.

“What is that?”

I flash the beam back and forth in reply, but the light goes out.