The Sultan's Tigers by Josh Lacey Page A

something to eat. I asked Uncle Harvey for some money to give them, but he said no.
    â€œWhy not?”
    â€œWhen you come to India, you have to make a choice. Do you give money to everyone? Or no one? It’s up to you.”
    â€œCouldn’t I just give some to those kids?”
    â€œNo.”
    After about an hour of this, the driver stopped his taxi, turned around, and grinned at us. “Here is our destination, sir. Bangalore Main Terminus. The charge will be ninety-seven rupees.”
    Uncle Harvey pointed at the meter. “It says thirty-seven.”
    â€œAirport charge, sir. Fifty rupees.”
    â€œThat makes eighty-seven.”
    â€œAlso ten rupees must be charged for crossing the city boundary.”
    â€œThat’s ridiculous.”
    â€œIt is the rules and regulations, sir. Here, I will show you.”
    The driver reached into his glove compartment and pulled out a sheaf of papers.
    While he and Uncle Harvey were arguing about the price, I opened my door and stepped out of the car. The sun had risen higher and the heat was even more intense. The air smelled of spices. The road was four lanes wide and busier than a highway, filled with traffic moving at unbelievable speed. Pedestrians nipped between the cars. How could anyone cross this road? I saw a crosswalk, but it was obviously only for decoration, because the cars didn’t bother stopping for anyone walking across it. Pedestrians just had to run. Someone jostled me. I gripped my bag tighter. A man tugged my sleeve. “You want good movie?” He offered a sheaf of pirated DVDs. I couldn’t bring myself to answer. I don’t know why not. I guess I was stunned. I’d never been anywhere like this, never seen streets that were so busy, so full of noise and movement, packed with so many smells and colors.
    The DVD salesman was still tugging my sleeve and asking questions, but I heard another voice that was louder than his: “Come on! This way!” My uncle was already on the move. I pushed past the DVD guy and hurried after him.
    The street might have been crowded, but the station was crammed. We had to fight our way through the entrance, pushing past porters carrying luggage, kids selling newspapers, and people hurrying in every direction, shouting and hugging and laughing and pushing and generally getting in one another’s way. No one apologized for treading on my toes. No one stepped out of my way. Soon I found myself struggling as hard as everyone else. I didn’t want to get separated from my uncle. I knew I’d never find him again.
    A voice boomed out the times, destinations, and platforms of various trains. Beggars were everywhere, stretching out their hands. Some were missing arms, others had no legs, and I saw one who didn’t have any limbs at all, just four stumps sticking out of his body.
    â€œYou give me money,” demanded one of the beggars, a kid about my age with a flapping sleeve where his right arm should have been. I mumbled some kind of apology and hurried past.
    Now I understood what my uncle had said in the car. How could we give a coin to one of these beggars and not the others? How could we choose who was worthy of our charity? But wouldn’t it be better to give some money to one of them rather than none at all?
    I thought of my home, my possessions, my clothes, the food that appeared on our table every day, the big bags that Mom brought home from the supermarket once a week, and I wasn’t sure whether to feel guilty or grateful that I was born in America rather than here.
    At the ticket office, we were greeted by a long line snaking down the corridor. We shuffled slowly toward the booths. Women fanned their faces with newspapers, men grumbled and sweated.
    A couple of skinny boys walked up and down the line, carrying buckets and calling out, “Chai! Chai! Chai!”
    They were selling tea, my uncle told me. Inside their buckets they had metal teapots and