Finding Badri

Rajesh counted the cracks between paving stones as he walked down Kampala Road. Forty-seven from the duka to the jacaranda tree, same as always. The jacarandas weren't flowering yet—November rains came late this year—but their shadows fell across the red dust in patterns Rajesh could predict.

Papa had been shouting this morning in rapid Gujarati that made the windows rattle. Not the usual lectures about muddy shoes or wasting time when stock needed counting. This was different—telephone pressed to his ear, switching between Gujarati and English, his voice climbing higher. "Ninety days, haan, ninety days they gave us and today is the last—" Mother had pulled her sari over her face and made sounds that weren't quite crying.

Rajesh had slipped out through the back where the jasmine grew thick over the compound wall. The same route he took Tuesdays and Thursdays to meet Godfrey by the old mango tree.

Badri was missing. Four days now. The hutch door had been open Monday morning—not broken, but properly unlatched. Someone who didn't understand had let him out. Papa said rabbits ran away, but Papa was wrong. Badri waited by the hutch every morning at exactly seven-fifteen for his lettuce. Badri's whiskers twitched four times before eating. Always four. Badri understood patterns.

The streets felt wrong today. Temperature was twenty-eight degrees, same as yesterday, but fewer people walked the pavements. The fabric shop that always displayed new kangas on Thursdays was dark behind rolled metal shutters. A military lorry—Bedford, olive-green, Uganda Army markings—sat outside the post office. Three soldiers stood smoking, watching people pass. One had a rifle.

"Rajesh!"

Godfrey ran towards him, school uniform untucked.

"You're meant to be packing," Godfrey said, breathing hard.

"I don't pack on Thursdays. I search for Badri on Thursdays."

"Your family has to leave. Today. My mother says everyone has to be at the airport by—"

But Rajesh had spotted white paper on the cinema window. He walked towards it.

FINAL NOTICE. ALL ASIAN RESIDENTS MUST REPORT FOR DEPARTURE BY 5PM, 8 NOVEMBER 1972. BY ORDER OF HIS EXCELLENCY LIFE PRESIDENT FIELD MARSHAL AL HAJI IDI AMIN DADA.

"This is why Papa was shouting," Rajesh said.

"Yes! Everyone's been trying to leave for weeks—"

"But we can't leave. Badri needs his medicine tomorrow." Rajesh checked his watch. "It's ten forty-eight. That's six hours and twelve minutes until five o'clock. I found my history textbook in forty-seven minutes once."

The first drops of rain fell, fat and warm. Short rains, finally.

"I'm checking the cricket grounds," Rajesh said. "Badri likes the grass there."

The cricket grounds were empty except for three marabou storks. The grass was brown—no one had watered it in weeks. Under the pavilion steps, rabbits sometimes sheltered. Rajesh checked. Nothing but cigarette packets and a torn magazine.

He sat on the bottom step and took out his notebook.

Monday, 7:18am: Hutch door open. Badri missing. Monday-Wednesday: Searched duka perimeter, Owino Market, drainage channels, old railway station. Negative.

Rain drummed on the pavilion roof. His map of Kampala showed everywhere Badri might go, but the map only included places Rajesh knew.

Papa understood systems. The duka's inventory alphabetised in Gujarati then English. Money sorted by denomination in the grey box. His three suits hanging exactly four centimetres apart. Even his moustache trimmed precisely every Sunday at eight o'clock.

Papa never had time for inefficiency. Never time to play football with Rajesh and Godfrey. Never at school sports days—always at the duka, always with ledgers and that expression like all the doors were hanging open.

Except once. Two years ago, Papa had come home early and found Rajesh building a cardboard maze for Badri. Papa had sat on the floor—actually sat on the floor in his pressed grey trousers—and helped adjust the walls.

"Positive reinforcement," Papa had said. "You reward the correct behaviour. The rabbit learns."

Forty-seven minutes they'd worked together. Then the telephone rang and Papa returned to the duka.

Rain was coming down in sheets now. Rajesh stood. He'd been to all the obvious places. He needed to think differently.

The old railway station on Port Bell Road. Outside his normal search grid, but the grid had failed.

The station had been abandoned since before Rajesh was born. Windows broken, copper guttering stolen. But there were storage rooms, dark places, rabbit-sized spaces.

Main door locked. Rajesh found a window with boards loose enough to pull aside. He climbed through, dropping onto dusty floorboards that smelled of rain-rot and animal droppings.

Dark inside. Rajesh took out his torch and swept the beam across empty ticket windows, a fallen sign reading KAMPALA CENTRAL, broken furniture.

Something moved near the back wall.

"Badri?"

He walked closer. A rat. But behind it, where two walls met, something nested in fabric scraps and dried grass.

White fur.

Badri curled in the nest, breathing fast. Fur matted with red dust. One ear torn—jagged cut approximately two centimetres. But alive.

"Badri."

Rajesh knelt. Badri's whiskers twitched—three times, not four, wrong but understandable. Rajesh picked him up carefully. The torn ear, nothing else visible. Weight felt wrong though. Maybe 1.5 kilogrammes instead of normal 1.8. Four days without proper food.

"You missed your medicine," Rajesh said. "Tomorrow is Friday. We have to go home now."

Badri's heartbeat rapid against Rajesh's palm. Rajesh tucked him inside his shirt against his chest where warmth was.

He climbed back through the window and started walking towards the duka. Rain easing to drizzle but streets were brown rivers. His watch showed three forty-four. One hour sixteen minutes.

Enough time to get home, dry Badri, give him water before leaving.

But when he turned onto Kampala Road, he stopped.

The duka was dark. In front, a black Peugeot 404 with government plates. Two soldiers stood by the door.

Rajesh backed into the alley. Badri squirmed against his chest.

"Rajesh!"

Mrs Lagat appeared with Godfrey, breathing hard. Her face was wrong—Mrs Lagat taught Standard Six, she was always calm. Not now.

"Your father has been searching everywhere for you," she said. "Your mother and sisters left two hours ago. Your father stayed behind to find you."

"Where is he now?"

"I saw him near Nakivubo at two o'clock. He was asking people if they'd seen a white rabbit."

Papa was searching for Badri. Papa, who had the evacuation to organise, who had to be at Entebbe by five o'clock, was searching Nakivubo Market for a rabbit.

Unless Papa knew Rajesh wouldn't leave without Badri.

"Papa would search systematically," Rajesh said. "He'd start at the duka, work outward. He'd check the railway station because that's where I found Badri last year."

He was already moving back towards the railway station, Badri pressed against his chest. Papa would think like Rajesh thought. Papa had spent thirteen years learning how his son's mind worked.

The rain started again, harder. He turned onto Port Bell Road and saw the railway building ahead.

And there, outside the station entrance, stood a man who'd forgotten how to stand straight. His left leg wouldn't hold weight properly. The jacket—grey wool, the kind that should be pressed—hung in ribbons from the shoulders.

Rajesh walked closer through the rain.

The trousers were black with mud to the knees. Not red dust but drainage-channel mud. The white shirt underneath had dark patches spreading across the left side—patches too thick to be rain.

The man's tie was gone. His hair hung in his face instead of being combed back with Brylcreem.

The moustache was trimmed precisely. Rajesh knew that moustache.

Papa.

Rajesh walked closer. A cut above Papa's left eyebrow, approximately three centimetres, still bleeding. The dark patches on his shirt smelled metallic.

Papa was holding something against his chest, trying to protect it from rain. His hands were wrong—the knuckles on both hands weren't just cut but shredded, skin torn away completely. Raw flesh showing through. Still bleeding.

"Rajesh," Papa said. His voice sounded rough.

Rajesh walked closer. Papa held out what he'd been carrying.

A rabbit. But not Badri. This rabbit was smaller, brown and white. Its whiskers twitched twice. Wrong number.

"I'm sorry, beta," Papa said. "I found this one near Nakivubo. I thought—" He stopped. Swallowed. "Par ye nathi. I couldn't find Badri."

Rajesh pulled Badri from his shirt. Papa's face changed—mouth opened, eyes widened, breathing stopped then resumed faster.

"You found him," Papa said.

"At the railway station. His ear is torn but it's healing. He needs to be dried or his body temperature will drop."

Papa took a step closer, limping. "We must go. Your mother is waiting at Entebbe. The plane leaves at six-thirty. If we're not through the checkpoints by five-forty-five, we won't make it."

"What happened to your suit?"

Papa looked down at himself. "I asked wrong questions to wrong people. About a rabbit." He looked back at Rajesh. "We should go now."

"Your breathing is irregular. And you're limping."

"It's fine, beta."

"It's not fine. The dark patches on your shirt are blood. Approximately 200 millilitres based on stain size."

Papa was still holding the brown-and-white rabbit. "We take this one too," Papa said. Not asking. Stating. "I found it. We take both."

This didn't make sense. The quarantine regulations were specific. But Papa's face was doing that thing again, the thing Rajesh couldn't categorise. The thing that made Papa's eyes look wet.

"Haan," Rajesh said. Yes.

Papa closed the distance in two limping steps and pulled Rajesh against him. The ruined jacket smelled wrong—rain and blood and something metallic. The brown-and-white rabbit squirmed between them. Badri's whiskers tickled Rajesh's neck—four twitches. The correct number.

Papa's breathing was close to Rajesh's ear. Still irregular.

"Chalo," Papa said after forty-seven seconds. Come. "Mrs Lagat has her car."

They walked back through rain. Papa's hand on Rajesh's shoulder, steadier than his breathing, steadier than his limp.

Mrs Lagat's Datsun was parked at the end of Port Bell Road. When she saw Papa's suit, his face, the way he was walking, she put her hand over her mouth.

"Get in," she said. "Quickly."

Mrs Lagat drove fast—sixty kilometres per hour on roads rated for forty-five. The car bounced over potholes. Papa sat beside Rajesh, still holding the brown-and-white rabbit.

"You need bandages," Rajesh said.

"Later, beta."

They drove past checkpoints. Soldiers waved them through—maybe because they saw Papa's suit and understood what it meant to look like that today.

At four fifty-nine they reached Entebbe Airport. Papa's destroyed suit got them through the gates. The guards looked at him and waved them past without checking anything.

Mother was waiting by the departure gate with Rajesh's three sisters. When she saw Papa she made a sound that wasn't a word. She ran towards them and grabbed Papa and Rajesh together.

"You're bleeding," Mother said in Gujarati, crying. "Tu jate chho. Your suit—what happened?"

"Hu thik chhu," Papa said. I'm fine. "We're all here. That's what matters."

Rajesh looked at Papa's face. The cut above his eyebrow still bleeding. Left ankle swelling above his ruined shoe.

"You're not fine," Rajesh said. "Your vital signs are all wrong."

Papa looked down at him. "I found the wrong rabbit," he said quietly. "All that time. All that searching. And I found the wrong one."

"I found the right one," Rajesh said.

"Haan," Papa said. "You did."

The departure board showed their flight: FINAL CALL - ENTEBBE-LONDON.

They ran—Mother pulling the sisters, Papa limping beside them, Mrs Lagat and Godfrey following. The brown-and-white rabbit bounced in Papa's arms. Badri's whiskers twitched against Rajesh's chest. Four times. Four times.

The gate attendant looked at their tickets, looked at Papa's destroyed suit, looked at the two rabbits, and waved them through.

On the plane, Papa collapsed into his seat. Mother pressed tissues against the cut above his eyebrow. Through the window, Godfrey and Mrs Lagat waved.

Rajesh sat beside Papa and pulled out his notebook. Most pages were illegible now, ink run together from rain. But he could start new pages.

Thursday, 4:07pm: Found Badri at railway station. Ear torn approximately 2cm. Body weight reduced to approximately 1.5kg. Papa found different rabbit (brown and white, whiskers twitch twice instead of four). Papa's suit torn. Blood loss approximately 200ml. Left ankle injury. Multiple lacerations on hands.

Papa was watching him write.

"What are you writing?" Papa asked.

"Documentation. Today's search results."

"Acha." Okay.

The plane started moving. Through the window he could see Kampala getting smaller—the duka was down there somewhere, and the cricket grounds, and the railway station where he'd found Badri in his nest of fabric scraps.

"Rajesh," Papa said quietly.

"Haan?"

"You did well, beta. Finding him. Not giving up."

Papa rarely said someone did well unless they exceeded expectations. But Rajesh had only done what was logical—searched systematically until he found what he was looking for.

"You searched too," Rajesh said. "You found the wrong rabbit but you kept searching."

Papa made that sound again, the one that might be a laugh. "Haan," he said. "I kept searching."

The plane lifted at six thirty-six. Rajesh felt the change in air pressure—uncomfortable but predictable. Badri shifted inside his shirt. Four whisker-twitches. Correct number.

Papa was still holding the brown-and-white rabbit. It had fallen asleep against his destroyed jacket.

"We'll need to name it," Papa said.

"Quarantine regulations specify—"

"I'll find a way," Papa said. Not will try. Will. "I always find a way."

Rajesh looked at his father's torn suit, his bleeding hands, his swollen ankle. At the brown-and-white rabbit sleeping against the ruined fabric.

He wrote in his notebook:

Papa found a rabbit. Wrong rabbit. Kept it anyway.

It didn't make sense, keeping the wrong rabbit. But Papa had systems. Papa had order. Papa always knew what he was doing, even when Rajesh couldn't see the logic yet.

The plane climbed higher. Papa's breathing had finally reached twelve breaths per minute—normal resting rate. But his hands were shaking where they held the brown-and-white rabbit. Small tremors. The shaking hadn't stopped since they got on the plane.

Mother was trying to clean the blood from Papa's shirt with tissue and spit, the way she cleaned stains from Rajesh's school uniform. The tissue wasn't working.

Papa's hands kept shaking.

Rajesh wrote in his notebook: Papa's hands shaking. Cause unknown.

It didn't make sense. The danger was over. They were safe now.

Below them, Kampala disappeared into rain. Papa's hands kept shaking.