“Children like Rukku?” Anger spurted out of me. “No one’s likeRukku!” I yelled. “No one!”

“Stop it.” Arul yanked the pan out of my hands. “I miss her, too.So does Muthu.”

She says she wishes she had more space, so she could take inevery homeless kid, but she can’t.

but it was hard for me to actlike I was in good spirits.

I ate and slept, but hardly spoke to the other girls in my room or tothe boys who slept in another part of the house.

I wrote to Amma, but I didn’t tell Celina Aunty whom I waswriting to.

“I’m not coming,” Arul muttered.

Only a few adults had ever really helped us. And this was morethan just seeking help. This was trusting her—a stranger—completely.

“Maybe we should light a candle in church for them?” Arulsuggested.

But that night, I couldn’t pretend anymore. We couldn’t denyyou were worse

It sounded like you’d given up altogether. On him, on me, oneverything

“Maybe Kutti wanted a better life, so he left.”

Then I remembered how Amma had shielded you from doctorsand hospitals.

Without saying another word, I turned around and walkedaway

“Her fever’s worse, I think,” Muthu said. His own eyes still hada feverish glaze.

Then they moved apart, and we went to work, trying to dredgeout at least a few bottles or tins from the sea of sewage.

“Thought he went on holiday?” Kumar gave a bitter laugh. “Hegot sick from something. Kept vomiting and then . . .”

“You three stay here,” Arul said. “I’ll work alone today.”

Muthu’s tale had horrified me,

“I was sold to a ‘school’ once,” Muthu said. “A school where they‘taught’ us to make handbags. We had to cut and sew all day. Theykept us locked in. The man who called himself our owner only let usgo to the bathroom at dawn and at night after our work was done

“Because she’s trying to catch us and sell us,” Muthu said.

“We found a new waste mart man, but he’s worse than stingy.”Arul’s forehead was scrunched up in a worried frown. “He drove areally hard bargain.

Worse, you wouldn’t let me rub the repellent on you properly,because you didn’t like the sticky feel of ointment on your skin.

You were shivering and coughing, but you started stringingbeads while we sang out, “Bead necklaces, pretty bead necklaces!”

They’redead. Gone. You can’t bring them back to life. None of us can.”

“Mummy, you could vaccinate him,” Praba wheedled. “Please,may I get him some food?”

He disappeared around the back of the house and reappeared,carrying a few glass bottles.

“Any policemen there?” Muthu wanted to know. “Orwatchmen?”

“I’m telling you, this place is haunted,” came another boy’svoice. “I saw a ghost moving near that banyan tree yesterday

surely our bead saleswould pick up again once we had a bigger stock of necklaces toshow.

I turned the cookie package around in my hands, feeling like aprincess who’d just granted a favor to a pitiful subject.

I scowled at the girl. “Did you hear us beg?”

“Tea?” You scratched at a mosquito bite on your elbow. “Tea!”

“There’s a church right by here,” Arul said. “Let’s go there andbuy a candle to give thanks to God.

“Here’s the money we saved,” I announced

“Can’t believe they ripped up everything they got their uglyhands on,” I said

“Ah, what a spread!” Muthu sounded entranced.I was more impressed by how much the guests didn’t eat, as theservers cleared away banana leaves still piled high with food.“Here comes our feast,” Muthu said as a man came and stuffedsome bags into the dumpster outside the back gate of the weddinghall.

WEDDING BREAKFAST

You shivered for a long time, whether from fear or being wet bythe cool drizzle, I wasn’t sure. When you finally grew still, I thoughtyou’d fallen asleep. But then you said, “Story?”

“Pick out your very own grave, Muthu.” Arul spread his handsexpansively. “So many to choose from.”

graveyard.

“Rrruuukkku,” I heard the waste mart man drawl as he and theother man stumbled toward us, “I’ve found you.”

“You two don’t think we should move?”

“Also,” Muthu said, “most people won’t pay as much as thosecollege girls.”

“Fly, balloon?” You pulled it close to your ear as if you couldhear it reply, the way I’d seen you talk to your wooden doll. “Okay,”you decided, untying the balloon. “Go.”

She gave me two hundred.I returned the extra fifty.“Keep it,” she said.

“Would anyone buy them?” I asked.

“Sorry, Rukku,” I said. “We have to stay.”“No, Viji,” you said in a reasonable tone. “Go.”

“What’s the point of living longer?”

I felt its weight, its perfect ripeness—not too soft, not too firm.

Up close the river was not beautiful. It looked more gray thansilver

You’ll be all right?” Teashop Aunty asked, keeping her voicelow so that the teashop man wouldn’t hear.

I leaped out.You jumped in.

It made no senseto me why any God who made us suffer in this life would startcaring for us in the next.

Not that you’d care whether it was true or not. For you, thingswere 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.

intellect

whole system of a human and his augmentation

effective intellectual augmentation was always realized within a system, and that any intervention intended to accelerate intellectual augmentation must be understood as an intervention in a system.