knew what had happened.
I swam as far as I could, came up for a quick breath of air, then went back down again.
Above me, I heard shouting and yelling when the girl realized her coins were gone. I stayed below the surface of the water for as long as I could at one time. I spat out a mouthful of river, then popped the coins into my mouth so that my hands would be free to move me through the water.
I moved farther out from the shore and let the current take me away. I left the bathing ghat behind and became part of the river, like the boats and the fish.
By bending low and walking on the riverbed, churning up mud with each step, I made my way downriver to the next ghat.
It was a burning ghat, a place for cremating dead bodies. Smoke rose from the wood that helped the dead people burn. Mourners and religious men brought the ashes down the steps to return the dead ones to the river.
There were no other children in the water here. Maybe they didnât like being so close to death. But coins got tossed from burning ghats as well as bathing ghats. People were always hoping for blessings.
I dove, feeling along the riverbed with my hands. I scooped up handfuls of mud and watched it drip through my fingers. Now and then I found a coin. I rinsed the mud off in the river and popped the coin into my mouth with the others.
After a while there were more coins in my mouth than I could hold. I spat them into my palm and headed to shore.
The current was a bit strong and I had to take it slow, stopping to rest now and then.
The burning ghat was not busy. There were just a few people saying prayers, sending off little paper boats with fruit and flower petals and floating garlands of marigolds in the water.
It was peaceful. I heard the sound of chanted prayers. The walls of the temple held back the city noises.
I was almost at the shore when I spotted a woman standing alone by a smoking pyre. Women didnât often come to this ghat. And she was reading a book.
I knotted my coins into a corner of my kurta so she couldnât see that I already had money. Then I moved in to see what she was reading. If she could afford a book, maybe she could afford to give me a few rupees.
She was reading a Bible. An English Bible.
It was perfect.
I knew a few Bible verses. They were useful when I went begging outside the fancier churches on Sundays.
I kept my eyes on her as I moved closer. I didnât want her to run away.
And then I was right next to her.
âJesus wept,â I said.
She was startled, and she looked up from her reading.
âYes, he did,â she said. âDo you know why?â
It seemed like a foolish question, but as I stood there I realized there were all kinds of reasons someone might cry. Maybe Jesus hit his thumb with a hammer. I had seen carpenters in the street do that, and one of them had cried. Maybe he was lonely. Maybe he was thirsty and the tea seller wouldnât give him any tea. Maybe he was lost in a strange city. Or maybe he had heard a great joke and was laughing so hard he started to cry.
The woman was waiting for an answer.
âHe was sad?â I said.
âDo you know what made him sad?â
How would I know that?
âHe was hungry?â I suggested. âI cry when Iâm hungry.â I held out my empty hand, hoping she would take the hint. I hoped I wouldnât have to pretend to cry to get my point across.
She glanced at my hand, then looked into my eyes. That made me feel funny.
I lowered my hand. She went back to her Bible.
âMy name is Valli,â I said. âAre you reading about Jesus being sad?â
I had a feeling that this woman could be good for quite a few rupees â maybe as many as ten â so I hung in.
âNo,â she said. âIâm reading something happier.â
âAre you happy that your family is dead?â
âThis man was not my family,â she said. âI donât know who he was.â
I let her read
I swam as far as I could, came up for a quick breath of air, then went back down again.
Above me, I heard shouting and yelling when the girl realized her coins were gone. I stayed below the surface of the water for as long as I could at one time. I spat out a mouthful of river, then popped the coins into my mouth so that my hands would be free to move me through the water.
I moved farther out from the shore and let the current take me away. I left the bathing ghat behind and became part of the river, like the boats and the fish.
By bending low and walking on the riverbed, churning up mud with each step, I made my way downriver to the next ghat.
It was a burning ghat, a place for cremating dead bodies. Smoke rose from the wood that helped the dead people burn. Mourners and religious men brought the ashes down the steps to return the dead ones to the river.
There were no other children in the water here. Maybe they didnât like being so close to death. But coins got tossed from burning ghats as well as bathing ghats. People were always hoping for blessings.
I dove, feeling along the riverbed with my hands. I scooped up handfuls of mud and watched it drip through my fingers. Now and then I found a coin. I rinsed the mud off in the river and popped the coin into my mouth with the others.
After a while there were more coins in my mouth than I could hold. I spat them into my palm and headed to shore.
The current was a bit strong and I had to take it slow, stopping to rest now and then.
The burning ghat was not busy. There were just a few people saying prayers, sending off little paper boats with fruit and flower petals and floating garlands of marigolds in the water.
It was peaceful. I heard the sound of chanted prayers. The walls of the temple held back the city noises.
I was almost at the shore when I spotted a woman standing alone by a smoking pyre. Women didnât often come to this ghat. And she was reading a book.
I knotted my coins into a corner of my kurta so she couldnât see that I already had money. Then I moved in to see what she was reading. If she could afford a book, maybe she could afford to give me a few rupees.
She was reading a Bible. An English Bible.
It was perfect.
I knew a few Bible verses. They were useful when I went begging outside the fancier churches on Sundays.
I kept my eyes on her as I moved closer. I didnât want her to run away.
And then I was right next to her.
âJesus wept,â I said.
She was startled, and she looked up from her reading.
âYes, he did,â she said. âDo you know why?â
It seemed like a foolish question, but as I stood there I realized there were all kinds of reasons someone might cry. Maybe Jesus hit his thumb with a hammer. I had seen carpenters in the street do that, and one of them had cried. Maybe he was lonely. Maybe he was thirsty and the tea seller wouldnât give him any tea. Maybe he was lost in a strange city. Or maybe he had heard a great joke and was laughing so hard he started to cry.
The woman was waiting for an answer.
âHe was sad?â I said.
âDo you know what made him sad?â
How would I know that?
âHe was hungry?â I suggested. âI cry when Iâm hungry.â I held out my empty hand, hoping she would take the hint. I hoped I wouldnât have to pretend to cry to get my point across.
She glanced at my hand, then looked into my eyes. That made me feel funny.
I lowered my hand. She went back to her Bible.
âMy name is Valli,â I said. âAre you reading about Jesus being sad?â
I had a feeling that this woman could be good for quite a few rupees â maybe as many as ten â so I hung in.
âNo,â she said. âIâm reading something happier.â
âAre you happy that your family is dead?â
âThis man was not my family,â she said. âI donât know who he was.â
I let her read
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