Vandita avoided her gaze. The other children looked unhappy.
“What? You have seen Khosla, haven’t you?”
“He came once only,” Vandita said, jogging her head from side to side. “He told us that the money for our cleaning equipment—the subsidy you gave us—is to be cut. Now we get twenty rupees per month only, instead of fifty.”
“But he can’t do that!” Rana looked around the staring faces, feeling guilty herself for Khosla’s duplicity. “I’ll talk to him immediately, Vandita.”
A young boy in soiled shorts and a small vest said, “When the officer came down, he had his nose in the air. We invited him in for chai’—he put his thumb to his lips in the gesture for drinking—‘but he wouldn’t join us. The look on his face said that we smelled. He’s like all the other cops.” He looked away from Rana’s gaze.
She pulled a fifty-rupee note from her pocket and passed it to Vandita. “For food,” she said. “I’ll talk to Khosla and get your money restored, ah-cha?”
Khosla was doing what officers had done for years before him: appropriating funds meant for elsewhere. If he was taking over fifty per cent of all the money spent on schemes meant to help the street-kids across the city, then he would be earning more than his actual wages. Khosla had probably assumed that she would cease her association with the kids as soon as she was promoted; no doubt he could not conceive of why anyone might seek their company. She would quietly tell him that she knew what he was doing, and that if it didn’t stop she would inform his superiors.
“But you, Rana!” a young girl called Priti asked. “Tell us about all your adventures!”
“How many murderers have you caught? Tell us!”
So she made up stories of car chases and shoot-outs, evil gang-lords and robbers, rather than disillusion them with the truth, that ninety-nine per cent of police work was boring administration.
She sipped her third cup of chai and listened to their stories. Each child had a tale to tell, exaggerated epics of how they had been chased, robbed, beaten—but she knew that most of these adventures were imaginary. She had told the same tall tales years ago to while away the hours before sleep.
One small boy said, “A holostar outside the Tata studios gave me twenty rupees! But then a drunken yar came and snatched it from me! I yelled and screamed, but where are the cops when you need them?”
The children laughed. They were forever complaining about the police, with justification, and smiling at Rana as they did so. She took as a compliment the fact that they no longer saw her as an officer of the law.
Midnight came and went and the brazier burned low. The children slipped quietly to sleep, the younger ones first, curling up where they lay on scraps of carpet or, if they were lucky, on old mattresses. The older children fought to keep awake, but long hours working on the streets, and the prospect of early starts at dawn, soon had them snoring.
Rana shifted her position on the mattress. She was warm and comfortable, and enjoyed the strange feeling of being safe among people she knew and trusted.
Carefully, so as not to wake the sleeping children, Vandita moved to her side and leaned against her. Rana stroked the matted tangle of the girl’s rosewater-scented hair.
“Are you happy, Vandita?” she whispered.
The girl nodded beneath Rana’s hand. “I have friends, now, Rana. Life is hard, but I have friends.”
“At first it is hard,” Rana said. “Everything is new, and you are never trusted because of what you left behind. They say, ‘How can you want to live like us? How can you turn your back on what you had?’ But they don’t understand that sometimes wealth and privilege can be terrible for the heart. In time things get better—you win their trust and they see you are just like them.”
She looked down at the girl curled by her side, but Vandita was asleep.
Rana stretched comfortably on the mattress and stared out from under the bridge at the silvered expanse of the Ganges, the ripples from the wakes of passing boats slicing the reflection of the full moon into shimmering ribbons.
It seemed such a long time ago now, a lifetime away, but at the age of ten she had been so unhappy. She had attended an expensive school with pupils from all over the world, and in a class of fifteen girls she had not one friend. She supposed it was her fault. She was small and quiet and cripplingly shy; in company she would have to screw her courage up to speak, and then it would come out too quickly, or the timing would be wrong, so that by the time she had thought of something to say the topic of conversation had moved on. She was never bullied, but sometimes she wished she had been, because then someone might have stood up to protect her, and she would have had a friend.
But if school was bad, then her life at home was even worse. She lived in a big house to the west of the city, with a big garden, and she had her own rooms and all the latest toys. She was looked after by an unsmiling nanny, a big woman with rough hands who hurt her when washing her hair or scrubbing her back, and showed her not the slightest sign of affection, or even friendship. She had heard other girls at school talk about how their nannies took them to holodramas and restaurants, but her nanny performed the bare minimum of duties for her weekly wage, and then abandoned her to her own devices.
Perhaps she could have tolerated the apathy of her nanny if her mother and father had shown her any affection. They were distant, monarchic figures she saw briefly—perhaps once a week. Her father was something to do with space exploration, and was often away in the colonies. He was like a stranger to her, and when he did return from the stars and pick her up and play with her briefly and insist she call him by his name, the forced and artificial quality of his affection pointed up the total lack of it the rest of the time. As for her mother… She had hated her mother even more, because there was no excuse for her lack of love. She was always somewhere in the house, arranging parties or working on this or that committee matter. She seemed to go out of her way to ignore Rana. She was not actively cruel—Rana had no stories of sadistic torture or punishment—but in a way her lack of connection was crueller still.
She had known at ten that she could not continue this way of life, but an alternative seemed impossible. She lost herself in books and holodramas, but these were temporary respites from a way of life she wanted to escape totally.
She had the idea one day when, driven by the family chauffeur to school, she had seen a gaggle of street-kids, scruffy tousle-haired urchins, playing kabbadi on the pavement. When eliminated from the contest they sat watching the game, arms about each other with unforced affection, laughing. They had nothing, she realised, and yet they had everything that she did not.
Two days later she joined them on the streets, having discarded her new clothes for a patched, thin dress belonging to her nanny’s daughter and rubbed soil into her face and hair. They had asked her name, and rather than say that she was Sita Mackendrick, daughter of the millionaire owner of the Mackendrick Foundation, she had made up a name on the spur of the moment: Rana Rao.
They had been suspicious of her, of course, wary of her precise way with words and her command of English, her fair skin that came as a result of having an American father, and the first few days had been hard. She had had to face taunts and jibes about her prissy manners and fastidiousness when it came to eating whatever scraps the others brought back, but she had found even in their laughing criticism a vital contact she had never known before. And in time, when they came to trust her and rely on her quick wits and even quicker tongue, they had shown friendship that made her weep with the joy of belonging.
She knew she had found true friends when, after perhaps a week of living in a derelict factory, the kids made her stay behind one day rather than join them begging on the streets. They had showed her a pix of herself—a prim, privileged self she hardly recognised—and said that police patrols were looking for her. They even moved themselves to another, distant part of the city for a month, until the search abated. Life was difficult: she often went hungry and was sometimes cold, and the ground made a hard and uncomfortable bed. But she became accustomed to hardship in time, and it was a small price to pay for the constant companionship of her new family.