The bridge home / Padma Venkatraman.

Enhanced descriptions from Syndetics:

"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.

Excerpt provided by Syndetics

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 think we could change our lives, like that girl did?" I said. "And Parvathi Teacher. And Subbu. Or at least his family. They all left for a better life in a big city."      Subbu had been the only friend we'd had in school. His long face and thin frame had made him look as weak as a blade of grass, but he'd always told off the other children who teased us.      "I miss him, Rukku. Think he ever misses us?"      You answered me with a snore.      I was glad you'd fallen asleep, but I stayed awake, worrying and hoping. I hoped Amma would finally tell someone about how she had been hurt, and that they'd swoop down and rescue us.      But I should have known she'd never tell.   3 BREAKING The next day, Amma pretended like nothing had happened.      You never pretended.      "Owwa," you announced. You patted our mother's good arm and stroked the sling on the broken one.      When Appa came home that evening, his eyes bloodshot and his breath reeking as usual, he set packages wrapped in newspaper on the cracked kitchen counter. "Presents for my girls."      "How nice!" Amma's voice was full of false cheer.      "Sorry I lost my temper last night." He placed a finger on her chin. "I'll never do it again. Promise."      I saw hope creep into Amma's eyes. Desperate, useless hope.      Suddenly, I wanted to shout at her, more than at him. Have you forgotten how often he's broken his promises?      He ripped open one of the packages and dangled a pair of bangles in front of you. But before your fingers could close over them, he jerked them away.      "Catch!" He launched one bangle over your head, and as you slowly raised your hands to try to catch it, he sent the other flying so fast it struck you before tinkling to the floor.      You squeaked like a trapped mouse.      He laughed.      How dare he think it was funny to trick you. How dare he mock your trust.      When he tossed a package in my direction, I didn't even try to catch it. I crossed my arms and watched it land on the floor.      "How bad both our girls are at catching!" Amma's voice was high-pitched and tense as a taut string.      "Stupid," he said. "One with slow hands, and the other with a slow brain."      "We're not stupid!" I picked up my package and flung it at him.      Nostrils flaring, he slapped me.      "Please," Amma begged. "Not the children."      You leaped and thrust your doll between me and Appa.      He kicked out at you.      At you.      Furious, I lunged at him. You joined in, and the two of us barreled into him together. He swayed and fell backward, but not before he struck your face.      Amma caught him, instead of letting him crack his head on the floor.      "Let them be," she pleaded.      Appa grunted.      I was sure he'd come at us again, but instead, he crawled into their bedroom and passed out for the night.      You ran a finger around the edges of what felt like a painful bruise blooming on my cheek. "Owwa," you said, paying no attention to your own wound. "Poor Viji."      With her unbroken arm, Amma grabbed a towel. She dipped it into the cool water in our earthen pot and pressed it against your bleeding lip. You struggled, until I promised it would help you heal.      "Leave Appa," I told Amma. "Let's go somewhere else."      "How would we live, Viji?"      "We'll find a way."      "We can't manage without him. No one employs uneducated women with no skills." Her voice was flat. Defeated. "Just don't talk back anymore, Viji. I couldn't stand it if he hurt you again."      "He hurts you all the time," I said. "And now that he's started on us, nothing's going to stop him."      She didn't argue. Her head drooped, and when she finally found the strength to lift her eyes to mine, I could see she knew what I'd said was true.      "I can't bear seeing you hurt, but how can I stop him?" She gazed at the pictures of the Gods and Goddesses smiling down serenely from our kitchen wall. As if they'd suddenly leap into life and start helping.      "Please understand, Viji." She was begging me, the same pathetic way she'd begged Appa. "I promised . . . to be a good wife . . . no matter what. I can't leave."      But after what he'd done to you, I couldn't stay.      As I gazed at Amma's trembling chin, I realized how differ­ent we were. Amma trusted that if she put up with things, she'd be rewarded with another, better life after she died. It made no sense to me why any God who made us suffer in this life would start caring for us in the next.      If I wanted a better future, I needed to change the life we had. Now.      The more I thought about our differences, the surer I felt that I could protect you better than she could. She hadn't tried to stop Appa from beating us. All she'd done was beg. I would never become like her, I promised myself. I'd never beg anyone for anything. At the first light of dawn, while Amma and Appa slept, I woke and changed into my best blouse and ankle-length pavadai as si­lently as I could. Around my waist, I tied the drawstring purse with Amma's gift of money. Then I crammed a sheet, some tow­els, and a change of clothes for each of us into our school back­packs. I added a bar of soap, a comb, and the pink plastic jar of tooth powder to your bag; from the kitchen, I grabbed a bunch of bananas--your favorite fruit--to add to mine.      Our bags were heavy, but I couldn't bear to leave behind the book from Parvathi Teacher. Carrying it along was like tak­ing her blessings with us, I told myself as I forced it into my bag.      Then I woke you.      "Shhup. Don't say a word, Rukku, please. Just get changed. We're leaving."      Sleep weighed down your eyelids, but you did as I asked. Perhaps it felt like a dream to you.      As we shuffled toward the front door, you cast a bewildered glance at our parents' bedroom.      "Amma?" you said.      Memories of our rare happy moments gleamed in my mind, like sunshine slipping into a dark room: the day Amma had helped you make a bead necklace, the night she'd sat by our beds and listened to the story I'd told you.      For a moment I hesitated. But then I glanced at your cut lip--the proof Appa had given me that he'd keep on hurting you as long as you were nearby.      We had to leave, right away, before fear or doubt slowed me down. Excerpted from The Bridge Home by Padma Venkatraman All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.

Reviews provided by Syndetics

Publishers Weekly Review

In this exquisitely narrated novel set in Chennai, India, 11-year-old Viji and her sister, Rukku, run away from their abusive father after he breaks their mother's arm and hits Rukku. On the city streets, the sisters find shelter by a bridge, adopt a stray dog, and meet brothers Mathu and Arul, who quickly become a kind of family to them. Venkatraman (A Time to Dance) vividly sketches the group's precarious economic situation-the boys teach the sisters how to scale trash mountains for saleable metal and glass, a drunken waste man threatens them-and the care they take with one another as they face the rainy season and illness. Viji also attends to her sister, who discovers new independence on the streets, such as a gift for beadwork that makes them money. The narrative is told in a letter from Viji to Rukku, the writing of which, readers gradually learn, is Viji's way of handling deep grief. This is a poignant portrait of love, sacrifice, and chosen family in the midst of poverty. Ages 10-up. (Feb.) © Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved.

School Library Journal Review

Gr 5--8--"Write her a letter" counsels a kind woman, as she helps Viji work through heartache after scraping out a living and sleeping in a makeshift hovel on a bridge near an large Indian city. Viji narrates her story speaking directly to Rukku, her gentle, artistic, and developmentally delayed older sister. For their safety, 11-year-old Viji and Rukku flee their abusive home, though it means perilous days scrounging for recyclables in the "Himalayas of rubbish" with two boys, Arul and Muthi, about their own age. The foursome strengthen each other, helped occasionally by generous street vendors and Teashop Aunty, while menaced by trash-picking gangs and the relentless weather. The choice to address the reader as "you" makes a challenging dynamic, as what happens to Rukku thus happens to the audience. The author's lilting and captivating narration employs almost musical tones for younger boy Muthu and others. VERDICT Venkatraman brings love, support, and humor to a story undergirded by tough issues. Curricular connections abound, including science, global studies, and ecology. A smart addition to any middle school library.--Maggie Knapp, Trinity Valley Sch., Fort Worth, TX

Booklist Review

In India, 11-year-old Viji and her 12-year-old sister, Rukku, run away to Chennai after their violent father strikes out at them. Unprepared for living on the streets, they befriend two homeless boys: Arul, who lost his family in a tsunami, and Muthu, who escaped from a so-called school where he was confined and forced to work. Together they pick through garbage dumps for glass and metal scraps to sell, sleep on an abandoned bridge, and form their own family. Rukku's intellectual disability has made her dependent on Viji, who gradually learns that her sister is more capable than she had thought. When Rukku and Muthu fall ill, Viji makes tough decisions in hopes of saving their lives and later must cope with her grief before she can move on. The four children and their tight-knit relationship are portrayed with conviction and finesse. Written in the form of a letter from Viji to her sister, the affecting narrative transports readers to a faraway setting that becomes vivid and real. Although the young characters face unusually difficult challenges, they nevertheless find the courage they need to move forward. The author of A Time to Dance (2014), Venkatraman offers an absorbing novel of love, loss, and resilience.--Carolyn Phelan Copyright 2019 Booklist

Horn Book Review

In a drunken rage, the father of eleven-year-old narrator Viji breaks her mothers arm. Viji decides, If I wanted a better future, I needed to change the life we had. Now. The next morning, she and her sister Rukku run away from home, taking a bus from their village to Chennai, the capital city of Tamil Nadu, India. There they befriend two homeless boys, Arul and Muthu, and take up residence in a tent on a decrepit bridge. The children eke out a living selling glass and other recyclables scavenged from the citys huge garbage dumps (one called the Himalayas of rubbish). Viji focuses on taking care of Rukku, who has an intellectual disability, and puts her dream of becoming a schoolteacher on hold. Written in short chapters directly addressed to Rukku in which traumatic events are balanced with personal reflection, this bittersweet story is about breaking the cycle of abuse, reaching for your dreams, and finding home in the most unlikely people and places. The novel also delves into sweeping systemic issues of poverty and child homelessness in contemporary India; an afterword provides more information. julie hakim Azzam January/February 2019 p 106(c) Copyright 2018. The Horn Book, Inc., a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.

Kirkus Book Review

Venkatraman's middle-grade debut tackles sisterhood, chosen families, and loss.Eleven-year-old Viji and her sister, Rukku, flee their abusive father after he breaks Amma's arm and kicks Rukku. They find themselves, overwhelmed, in the big city of Chennai, where they are temporarily employed by kind Teashop Aunty, who offers them bananas and vadais, and fall in love with a puppy, Kutti, who becomes their constant companion. The sisters meet Muthu and Arul, two boys who live under an abandoned bridge, and join them; Viji tells Rukku elaborate stories to reassure herself and her sister that they will be OK. Soon, Viji finds herself telling the young boys her stories as well; in return, the boys show the girls how to earn money on the streets: by scavenging for resalable trash in a very large garbage dump Muthu calls "the Himalayas of rubbish." When tragedy strikes, it is this new family who helps Viji come to terms. Craftwise, the book is thoughtful: Venkatraman employs the second person throughout as Viji writes to Rukku, and readers will ultimately understand that Viji is processing her grief by writing their story. Viji's narration is vivid and sensory; moonlight "slip[s] past the rusty iron bars on our window"; "the taste of half an orangelast[s] and last[s]." The novel also touches on social justice issues such as caste, child labor, and poverty elegantly, without sacrificing narrative.A blisteringly beautiful book. (Fiction. 10-14) Copyright Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.