The Bridge Home - Softcover

Venkatraman, Padma

Softcover

ISBN 10: 1524738131 ISBN 13: 9781524738136

Verlag: Penguin Young Readers Group, 2020

Inhaltsangabe

"Readers will be captivated by this beautifully written novel about young people who must use their instincts and grit to survive. Padma shares with us an unflinching peek into the reality millions of homeless children live every day but also infuses her story with hope and bravery that will inspire readers and stay with them long after turning the final page."--Aisha Saeed, author of the New York Times Bestselling Amal Unbound

Four determined homeless children make a life for themselves in Padma Venkatraman's stirring middle-grade debut.

Life is harsh in Chennai's teeming streets, so when runaway sisters Viji and Rukku arrive, their prospects look grim. Very quickly, eleven-year-old Viji discovers how vulnerable they are in this uncaring, dangerous world. Fortunately, the girls find shelter--and friendship--on an abandoned bridge. With two homeless boys, Muthi and Arul, the group forms a family of sorts. And while making a living scavenging the city's trash heaps is the pits, the kids find plenty to laugh about and take pride in too. After all, they are now the bosses of themselves and no longer dependent on untrustworthy adults. But when illness strikes, Viji must decide whether to risk seeking help from strangers or to keep holding on to their fragile, hard-fought freedom.

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Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Padma Venkatraman was born in Chennai, India, and became an American citizen after attaining a Ph.D. in oceanography from The College of William and Mary. She is also the author of A Time to Dance (IBBY selection, ALA Notable, CCBC Choice, Notable Books for a Global Society winner, and South Asia Book Award Honor Book), Island's End (ALA Best Book of the Year, ALA/Amelia Bloomer List selection, and CCBC Best Book), and Climbing the Stairs (Julia Ward Howe Award, Bank Street Best Book, YALSA BBYA selection, Notable Social Studies Trade Book for Young People, and CCBC Choice).

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1
TOGETHERNESS

Talking to you was always easy, Rukku. But writing’s hard.
     “Write her a letter,” Celina Aunty said, laying a sheet of pa­per on the desk. Paper remade from wilted, dirty, hopeless litter that had been rescued, scrubbed clean, and reshaped. Even the pencil she gave me was made from scraps.
     “You really like saving things, don’t you?” I said.
     Crinkly lines softened her stern face. “I don’t like giving up,” she said.
     She rested her dark hand, warm and heavy, on my shoulder.
     “Why should I write?” I said. “It’s not like you have her address.”
     “I believe your words will reach her,” Celina Aunty said.
     “We’re opposites,” I said. “You believe in everything and everybody. You’re full of faith.”
     “Yes,” she said. “But you’re full, too. You’re full of feelings you won’t share and thoughts you won’t voice.”
     She’s right about that. I don’t talk to anyone here any more than I have to. The only person I want to talk to is you, Rukku.
     Maybe writing to you is the next best thing.
     If you could read my words, what would you want me to tell you?
     I suppose you’d like to hear the fairy tale you’d make me tell every night we huddled together on the ruined bridge. The story that began with Once upon a time, two sisters ruled a magi­cal land, and ended with Viji and Rukku, always together.
     That story was made up, of course.
Not that you’d care whether it was true or not. For you, things were real that the rest of us couldn’t see or hear.
     When I finished the story, you’d say, “Viji and Rukku to­gether?”
     “Always.” I was confident.
     Our togetherness was one of the few things I had faith in.

2
ROTTEN FRUIT

You always felt like a younger sister, Rukku. You looked younger, too, with your wide eyes and snub nose. You spoke haltingly, and you hunched your shoulders, which made you seem smaller than me, though you were born a year before.
     Born when our father was a nice man, I suppose, because Amma said he was nice. Before.
     Imagining Appa “before” took a lot of imagining. I was a good imaginer, but even so, I couldn’t imagine him all the way nice.
     The best I could do was think of him as a not-yet-all-the-way-rotten fruit. A plump yellow mango with just a few ugly bruises.
     I could imagine our mother picking him out, the way she’d pick fruit from the grocer’s stall, choosing the overripe fruit he was happy to give her for free. I could see Amma looking Appa over, hoping that if certain foul bits could be cut away, then sweetness, pure sweetness, would be left behind.
     Because Amma did choose him. Their marriage wasn’t ar­ranged.
     Somehow he charmed her, charmed her away from her family, with whom she lost all touch. They were ashamed, she told me, ashamed and angry with her for eloping with someone from an even lower caste than the one she’d been born into.
     It was all she ever said about her family. Not their names or where they lived or how many brothers and sisters she had. Only that they wanted nothing to do with us. And Appa’s fam­ily—if he had one—didn’t seem to know we existed either.
     Sometimes I wonder if they might have helped us if they’d known. But maybe they’d have done nothing, or acted like our neighbors and schoolmates, who did worse than nothing. Who sniggered or made rude comments when we walked past. Com­ments that upset you so much you stooped even lower than usual, so low it looked like you wanted to hide your head inside your chest.

On my eleventh birthday, when we came home from school, I was surprised to see saucepans full of food simmering on the stove.
     “Amma, you cooked!” I loved evenings when Amma felt strong enough to prepare dinner for us, instead of the other way around. “You even made payasam?” I inhaled the sweet scent of milk rice that wafted through our apartment.
     “Not just that.” Amma dug out a small money pouch from its hiding place, underneath the rice sack. “Here’s two hundred rupees, for you to buy something for yourself.”
     “Two hundred rupees!” I was so astonished that I almost dropped the pouch before securing it to my ankle-length skirt.
     “I’ve been saving a little of what Appa gives me for food and rent. I wanted to buy something, but I was too tired to go shopping for a gift, and I wasn’t sure what you’d like.”
     “This is the best gift, Amma. Thanks.”
     “Sweet?” you said. “Sweets for Rukku?”
     “Proper food first,” Amma said. “For you both.”
     Amma heaped rice onto our plates and ladled some hot, spicy rasam over the top. She started eating, but you just stared at your food, your hands crossed over your chest.
     “Come on, Rukku.” I rolled a mouthful of rice and rasam into a ball and tried to feed you.
     “No!” you yelled. “Sweet! Sweeeeet!”
     “Don’t get angry, Rukku. Please? Eat and I’ll tell you a story tonight.”
     “Story?” You calmed down.
     Amma looked at me gratefully.
     We’d just finished our dinner when we heard Appa’s heavy footsteps. The sound of him staggering up the stairs to our apartment told us all we needed to know.
     “Get in your room. Quick,” Amma said.
     “Sweet,” you moaned, but your hand met mine and we crept into our bedroom. In the darkness, we huddled together, unable to block out the sound of Appa yelling at Amma. We rocked back and forth, taking comfort in each other’s warmth.

Appa broke Amma’s arm that night, before storming out of the house.
     “I need to see a doctor,” Amma came and told us. Her voice was tight with pain. “Stay with Rukku. If they see her—”
     She didn’t finish her sentence. She didn’t need to. She’d told me a million times how scared she was that if you set foot in a hospital, the doctors might lock you away in “a mental institution.”
     You curled up on our mattress with your wooden doll, Marapachi. I smoothed your brow.
     The patch of moonlight that slipped past the rusty iron bars on our window fell on the book that our teacher, Parvathi, had given me before she moved away. No other teacher had ever been so nice, even though I was often at the top of the class.
     I opened the book. In a shaking voice, I read you a tale about a poor, low-caste girl who’d refused to accept the life oth­ers thought she should lead.
     “You...

Details zur Ausgabe

• Verlag: Penguin Young Readers Group
• Erscheinungsdatum: 2020
• Sprache: Englisch
• ISBN 10: 1524738131
• ISBN 13: 9781524738136
• Einband: Taschenbuch
• Anzahl der Seiten: 208
• Kontakt zum Hersteller: preigu GmbH & Co. KG; mail@preigu.de; ; Lengericher Landstr. 19; Osnabrück; Niedersachsen; 49078; Deutschland