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Siya stood at the window, peering out at the side yard, she could see right onto Mrs. Williamson's yard too. Her ginger cat, Mr. Purrfect, was sunning himself in the living room window. His golden orange body seemed to have caught the glowing rays of the morning sun. One hand held a hairbrush which was moving through her long black hair in desultory fashion.

I wish I had Daddy's hair, it just has to be shaken into place, and it flops onto his forehead perfectly.

Siya had hair that flowed past her shoulder in gentle tumbling waves, it was so silky that most people could not resist running their hands over it. Siya insisted on it being tied up, in two ponytails or one. She had a rod full of hanging silk ribbons to match every outfit. Her one concession to 'prettifying' herself. Otherwise her choice mirrored her father's taste in clothes, jeans and loose shirts with plenty of pockets.

"Siya, aren't you done yet? Come and get your hair tied up. Quickly, now. I still have to get your lunch packed."

Obedient, but with faint hope in her heart, Siya set off to the bedroom next door. She handed the brush to her mother and stood before her with bowed head and turned back, waiting to have her hair gathered and bunched before tying.

Just one stroke was sufficient to demonstrate a half-done job of brushing out tangles. Once it would have earned Siya a kiss on the top of her head, before soft loving strokes sent her into an ecstatic semi-doze. Today the strokes were more thrusts that undid the tangle with quick efficiency, there wasn't even a kiss to sooth the pain of hair that was yanked into place. Just an impatient click of the tongue that said Siya had disappointed her mother again, she was not proving herself to deserve becoming a 'big girl'.

Nandy's practiced hand tied and tweaked the ribbon into prim bows with long tails. Siya was spun around by the shoulder, a chin grasped and her face inspected.

"Good, you can put on the jeans and Tee on your bed and come down for breakfast." A placatory pat on the bottom hastened the recalcitrant child. Nandy was having to face a strange resistance to ordinary tasks from her once biddable child, she put it down to the pangs of 'growing up' . She was thankful that she had got Siya out of the room, the waves of nausea had been getting stronger by the minute and she headed to the bathroom. Once more.

Five turbulent minutes later, she came out, wiping her lips with a face towel, to find Siddarth waiting for her with a steaming mug in his hand.

"Oh, no. Not coffee. Much as I used to be hooked to it, I can't stomach that any longer. Besides it's not ..."

"... good for the baby? I know. This is lemon tea - with ginger. Remember you found it helpful when Siya was coming?"

Siddarth got a look from his wife that told him he had got it right, a rare feat indeed. He helped her to ease back onto the bed, fluffed up the pillow and handed her the mug he had set down on the bedside table.

"Just rest until it wears off. I'll get Siya off to school."

"But, her lunch isn't packed. I wonder if there's enough bread for sandwiches? Or maybe ..."

Siddarth ruminated for a second and proffered,"I could make her grilled cheese sandwiches, open face if there are only a couple of slices. She loves those."

Nandy wasn't fooled for long, her veto was prompt.

"So do you. You have used up your quota of cheese for the week, buddy."

"I wasn't going to ..." Siddarth broke off with a grin, his wife knew him very well, she'd known him for years before they married. His tall frame, tall for an Indian at 6' 1" was just bulky enough to make her worry and she kept a strict watch on his diet.

"And every time you make anything in the kitchen, cleaning it takes a lot of elbow grease and a strong stomach. I can't face that right now."

"Relax. I'll give her money to get lunch at school. She can do that for a change. From tomorrow we'll plan things out the night before."

He tucked the comforter around his wife and headed off to the stairs, long strides eating up the distance.

"Pankudi," he yelled. He often called Siya that, it meant 'little petal' in his native tongue and he thought it apt for her when she was born, with her petal soft pink cheeks. Siya loved it too. Even Nandy had taken to using that diminutive at home.

Siya scampered up to him and he swung her around by the waist before they both went down.

Siya was giggling in glee. She had rejected the T-shirt chosen by her mother and had on a plaid shirt she had searched for, instead. It was uncannily similar to what Siddarth had on.

"Isn't Mommy coming down, Papa?"

"Mommy needs to rest a bit, Rani." That was another nickname, the equivalent of 'Queen'. "She is a bit unwell."

Siya had a moment of concern for Mommy, she wasn't well. That is why she had been so impatient and strange today. Poor Mommy.

She soon forgot all about it as Siddarth played and clowned around getting out the plates and pretending to nearly drop one, recovering with exaggerated movements. Juggling the water and juice bottles, making faces of dismay and horror. Siya's chortles and mirth could be heard by Nandy who allowed herself to drift into an uneasy doze, still not quite recovered, but not retching any more.

Breakfast was easy, cereal with milk, honey and bananas. A large glass of orange juice for Siddarth, a small one for Siya. In no time at all, Siya was out the front door and into her Dad's car. She adjusted the seat belt in the back with care. She caressed the soft creamy seat, unaware that it was made of an expensive material, just liking the rich smooth feel.

"Papa, I like your new car."

Siddharth laughed his deep gay laugh. The one that made Siya feel warm in her toes. "So do I Pankudi, so do I."

He patted the steering wheel of his latest acquisition (insert appropriate car name here later) as he did so, it was a perk of his new job. He had moved into this new large house too, it had spacious yards for Siya to play in safely. Now that they would have one more child, it was the perfect time to have done so.

He glanced at Siya, still unaware of the momentous event. Nandy was firm that they should let her know of it only when the birth was almost imminent. She had a kind of superstitious fear of childish expectations that might not come to fruition. She herself had been a premature child, born after her mother had lost another child to prematurity related complications.

Siya, must have felt her father's glance upon her, she turned to him with a nervous impatience.

"Let's go, Papa. I want to get there early. Biddy and I are going make Valentine's cards for the teachers today."

Siddarth gave himself a mental shake and put the car in gear.

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Pallavi peered through the crowd at the exit gate, she jiggled the luggage trolley with impatience as she tugged at a straggling Anju with another. travelling with a small child was not to be recommended as an enjoyable experience.

She saw Siddarth's head bobbing above the mass of people milling in the waiting area, his height made him easy to spot. She waved to attract his attention and his arms semaphored a greeting as he thrust through.

"Hi, Pallu! Hi, Hero, how are you?"

He held out his hand to his nephew. The familiar endearment reminded Anuj that this was Uncle Sid, and he gave him a shy grin in greeting.

Siddarth took hold of the luggage trolley and expertly manouvered it out to the parking lot. Anuj skipped along behind, listening as his mother caught up on family events with her brother.

It seemed they had settled into the 'new' house and Siya had been going to the new school for one term now.. He vaguely remembered Siya from his last visit, she had shared her toys and even enjoyed showing him the interesting parts of the house.

Like the tumbly-whirly that washed clothes, the two of them used to sit in front and watch the coloured kaleidoscope of the laundry. Its mystery rivalled the cartoons on TV, no they outdid them. Cartoons he could watch at home too, but their house only gobbled up clothes and spat them out from a tall box, it didn't have this great view into the world of clothes. The swells of water that seemed to be searching for a sandy shore, the whipped cream foam that built up and made snowy peaks, the butterflies of clothes that fluttered in the steel cocoon.

The sand-pit in the backyard had been fun too, like having a private bit of beach - what romps they'd had with pails and spades. They had made sand sculptures of shaky huts and temples and even a river running through courtesy the garden hose. What a pity they had a 'new' house.

Sid Uncle had a great car, it was large and had a boot area large enough to have four seats and space for their luggage. He sat in the middle seat, strapped in the middle of the soft cream seat. He ran his hand over the cover, it felt smooth, like his Mom's cheek.

"Real leather seats, Sid! Wow, new car, new house, you are doing better with each job hop."

"Well, the fact that I've had to move houses twice was the only downside, Siya finds it hard to make friends, this school was be her third in two years."

"How come you couldn't negotiate staying in the same house?"

"Well, the first was so small we thought the move would do her good, and she did like that larger house. Then with my second job-hop, the boss had this house with a paid-up lease that had been intended for a guy who ultimately did not join and he asked me to take it over as a favour. It's really a great house, wait until you see it. But each time we've crossed into a new school district and Nandy insists public schooling is better than private for Siya until high school at least. She doesn't want her growing up in an elitist background."

Anuj looked out of the window and was excited by so many things, there were huge houses here, with enormous grassy gardens and this thrilled the child who lived in a tiny two-bedroom apartment. He hoped Uncle Sid's house was ... the car was slowing down and turning into a house ... a huge two-storey house with a sloping roof. His eyes widened when he saw the immense garden in front, bordered by a neat hedge.

There were two figures standing at the door, his aunt - Dini Mami, and Siya, both were smiling and waving. Anuj was thrilled to think he had such a great place to play in and he ran to them the moment he was lifted out the car.

"Dini Mami! Siya!" He got a swooping kiss from his aunt and a wide grin and a friendly push from his cousin. He pushed right back and in that second they renewed their acquaintance.

Siya took him straight to her room, he thought it was a great room, with an immense toy-chest and a set of diamond-paned windows that opened onto another garden. A fat ginger cat was sunning herself on the window sill. They had recently discovered the cat was in fact a female, it still answered to 'Purrfect,' the 'Mr'. being dropped now. Siya said it was their neighbour's cat but it often occupied any of the upper window-sills of the their house. She accepted his admiration of the surrogate pet with pleasure. Anuj always had this habit of admiring her possessions and this pleased her.

He even gave Ribbons a solemn hand-shake. He had met Ribbons on his last visit and always treated him with an air of deferential awe, perhaps inspired by Siya's tales of his impossible exploits. She might even allow Ribbons to think-hug him one day.

The visit passed by pleasantly for all, Sid enjoyed catching up with his kid sister, she'd had a rough life but never whined or lingered long on the details. Her husband was in the armed forces and she was struggling to do everything alone whilst he was posted in Iraq. She never talked of her fears, nor of loneliness. She just got on with the job on hand.

She had always adored her 'big' brother and it helped that she found his wife to be a kindred soul. They might like different things, Nandy had some weird ideas in her head, but she was very loving and generous. So Pallavi kept her own counsel regarding Nandy's fetish for cleanliness and order and focused instead on the time and effort she had taken to make Anuj's room boy-like. He had a large green tree stenciled on the wall, with the rest being done in stripes of blue at the top and brown at the bottom; he liked gardens so much, she'd made one in his room.

"Dini, this must have taken so much trouble. You are really marvelous. In your condition, too."

Nandy's eyes warned her the conversation had taken a turn that was somehow unwelcome. The answer reassured her to some extent.

"No, no, it is good to have one room in the house boy-friendly. Sid grumbles that even our bedroom is too girly for his tastes, all ivory and lavender. He did most of this work and I just directed his efforts. I'm over the nausea now, but still get exhausted easily. Maybe the weight gain has something to do with it."

The room had a toy-chest just like Siy'as, only the chest was bright green, with stencils of dogs and cats instead of flowers. She had given him a robot set and a remote controlled car too, but he spent most of his time with Siya, playing with her toys. He literally became Siya's shadows, doing what ever she did. He would even snuggle up to her when watching TV and they would sit with arms around each others' shoulders in a way that brought moisture into Pallavi's eyes.

It helped that he was nearly a year younger than Siya, he'd just turned five, she was due to turn six in a month's time. He admired her physical prowess, she could climb up the tree in the backyard in the twinkling of an eye. He needed the ladder to get up to the tree house in it. She could jump and run and never cried if she fell down. Instead of a sand-pit, this house had a whole side yard of sandy soil, Dini Mami was making a pretty border for it with rocks and shells and it had a small blobby kiddie pool dug into it by Sid Mama. He and Siya had a tough time deciding whether ro go for sand or water in play time. Of course she always decided which, he just followed. He thought she was 'wunnaful'; she liked the adulation.

Three blissful days passed, Anuj was normally a picky eater - but with Siya to emulate he was soon wolfing dosas and idlis with gusto and demanding his mother get the 'recipe'. She forbore to remind him that he had always turned up his nose at these offerings. She dug her fork into the white fluffy depths of her own idli, dunking the piece the golden brown aromatic sambhar before collecting a scrape of green chutney on it. She had to admit South Indians might have a gene for cooking these things just right, it dissolved against her tongue in a rich mixture of sweet and spicy flavours.

They managed to get in a trip to the Bergen County Zoological Park, which was just a short drive away. It had animals native to North and South America. Nandy made sure the visit was planned for a day when the train ride and carousel were running. After those two, the budgie exhibit was the biggest attraction. The zoo had a 45 minute conducted tour, but they hardly needed anybody to show them around. Siya was making her third visit here and proved surprisingly knowledgeable for such a young child.

Pallavi turned to Nandy after a small interlude in which Siya waxed eloquent upon the talking abilities of various birds and correctly named the Amazonian Grey parrot as the the most facile speaker.

"My God. That child is a walking talking encyclopedia. See how Anuj is hanging adoringly upon her every word?"

"Gigo, sis. GIGO." Siddarth shook his head ruefully.

"Whatever do you mean, Sid. That is certainly not garbage she is spouting. I think you should not be so disparaging of your daughter."

"I'm not. I am as proud of her as any parent can be. But she is not yet six. She is like a sponge that soaks up information from what's spoken in her presence, but still does not have the ability to process it. She spouts it whenever the opportunity arises and people think she is intelligent. But she is just parroting most of the time." He smiled at the irony of that observation.

Nandy interjected, "That is why we are careful what we say in front of her. One never knows when it'll come back to haunt us."

Pallavi still thought it admirable that a young child had such an amazing memory, comparing Siya to her own son, still unable to correctly pronounce words of more than two syllables.

They spent the rest of the visit at home, watching old Hindi movies and laughing over the ridiculous compulsory musical gyrations of the lead pair. They laughed at the clean humour of the older stories and deplored the violence and innuendo or even obvious obscenities of the current offerings, even as they praised the slick camera work and editing. They gorged on Nandy's culinary offerings, she was a superb cook, having even mastered Sid's favourite Gujarati dishes.

"Have some more Undhiya, Pallu? And you Anuj?"

"Sure," chimed the two voices in unison, they all burst out laughing.

"Why is it called Undhiyo, Papa?" Siya used the correct Gujarati form of the name.

"Now, Siya, you know that very well. You just like to hear the explanation."

"Why does she like it?" Anju's query made Sid groan, he should have known that kids had two questions for every answer. He gave his sister a rueful smile and answered Anuj.

"Because it gets its name from the fact that it is made upside down. Literally 'Undha', from the Gujarati word for upside down."

"How can you make anything upside down? All the stuff would fall out?"

Siya beamed with pride as her father explained the olden method of cutting up all the seasonal winter vegetables, in a tropical country, winter provides a bountiful crop, and tossing them in narrow necked clay pot. Layers of vegetable, ground seasoning called 'masala', and oil, were put in. Oodles of oil to prevent it sticking to the sides. Then it was sealed with a clay lid and dough around the rim, upended in a bed of coals, covered with more coals and left to simmer for hours. Soft unleavened wheat flour dough was either fried into puris or flattened and roasted as rotlis, only then was the pot unearthed and the aromatic contents taken out as accompaniment.

"How did you get it so soft without using much oil, Dini?" Only Pallavi called Nandy that. It came from an initial resentment when her adored elder brother began making time for his 'girl'. A taunting nickname that was meant to irritate and expose the 'other woman'. But Nandy had just smiled and said she had always longed for a more Indian contraction of her name, not the anglicised version most Americans used. As the two had slowly found their way to a firm friendship, the name had become their way of commemorating it.

"The same way she does most of her cooking, microwave Zindabad. I swear those guys should pay her for the number of people she has taught to use it for Indian cooking." Siddarth served himself a large second helping too as he grumbled,"just doesn't taste the same without oil floating on top."

"As long as it keeps you alive, healthy and able to grumble about it, I am happy." Nandy's retort was typical of the give-and-take conversation that endorsed their having been friends before they became 'significant others'.

Pallavi mopped up the remains of 'Undhiya' on her plate and thought their traditional mother would appreciate Nandy's concern with Sid's health. The food was just a little different cooked this way, some might even prefer it, the vegetables retained more juice and tasted sharper.

It had to come to an end, and all too soon the good-byes were being said, a taxi was at the door waiting for them. Only Nandy and Siya were there to wave them off, Sid had gone to work early. Pallavi had insisted she did not want Sid to drop her, but actually she did not want to say her farewells in the crowded impersonal bustle at the airport, preferring to say a warm affectionate one at home. Siya and Anuj hugged and he called out a gulping, ''Bye Didi!" He was too big to cry of course.

Siya turned her face into her mother's waist as they left and surreptitiously wiped her eyes which seemed to be tearing from those pesky bits of grit that do get in in one's eyes.

"Mommy, why can't Anuj stay with us all the time?"

"Well, he has to stay with his Mommy and Papa darling, they would be unhappy if he did that."

"Well, can't you and Papa get me an Anuj for myself? The house opposite has two kids, you can ask for another one too."

Here Nandy smiled to herself, she patted her little daughter on the head. Out of the mouths of babes and infants, out of the mouths of babes... Her hand went to the gentle swell in her middle and she felt a small kick from within.

When she recounted the demand to Sid that night, he just looked troubled.

"Nandy, wishing for a brother like Anuj is not quite the same as accepting a baby brother. I still think you should tell Siya of the coming event clearly. Get her used to the idea."

Nandy was adamant however that babies were more appealing in person than in the abstract. Also her superstitious fears had only increased as the pregnancy progressed. Except for close family, nobody yet knew she was 'expecting', an Indian-ism for being pregnant.

Siya was now in favour of the idea of a sibling and even more to that of a brother. The ultrasound last week had told them it would be a boy, they had even decided on the name - Ved. Short enough for American tongues and yet full of meaning

Ved is Sanskrit, literally it means knowledge; the four vedas are texts of ancient wisdom and the foundation of Hinduism.

Sid was used to letting his wife take care of the home front, she did a great job most of the time even if her methods were unorthodox. He dismissed the idea from his mind and turned off the light.

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It is impossible to understand or know Siya if you don't know Ribbons. 'Behind every successful man ...' goes the well-worn saying; behind this unusual girl is an untiring plush stuffed bear.

Ribbons was once a handsome chocolate brown with velvety lush fur, worn away now by frequent kisses and caresses, her prefers to think of it as loving-girl-pattern baldness. This is akin to male-pattern baldness but found only at the crown of well-loved teddy bears. The original hue has to be guessed, it is a faded caramel at best. Even the beady black eyes have succumbed to the ravages to time and numerous trips in the washing machine. There is a rim of cream showing all around their rim, think of them as teddy bear cataracts..

He was named for the handsome red silk ribbon tied around his neck, the only attire or ornament he sports. Perhaps it is a good thing that is so, today it looks like a ratty piece of twists of thread, frayed and torn. He needs a new wardrobe and Siya hopes he is going to get one for Diwali. She has her heart set on getting him a hat but Papa has been wise-cracking that they'd need to change his name then.

He resides in Siya''s room, guarding her bed from squirrels and birds who might come in if she carelssly left the window open. Once Mr.s Williamson's cat, Purrfect, did get in, but was extremely deferential to Ribbons, curling up at the foot of the bed and leaving the pillow throne to the rightful occupant.

He looks less than ordinary and the uninitiated are silenced with a glare when they talk of him as a 'worn-out toy'. That's like committing two crimes with one action, you deserve two punishments. Ribbons is not a toy, he has been holding the position of closest confidante and constant home-companion to Siya for a lifetime. Whose lifetime, you ask? Both, for neither can remember who came first. At least, Siya admits she cannot remember and he is silent on that issue.

And, let's come to that other wounding epithet - 'worn-out' did you say? You better be glad Siya isn't here to hear you, for the last visitor to say that got a flushed face thrust into hers and a voice quavering with indignation ask her if she would like her 'Gramps' to be called 'worn-out'? The correct term, she was informed in a now glacial voice, was 'sperienced! The little girl who had come over on a play date was intimidated by the unfamiliar word and cowed by the attitude. Her grand-father did let out a bellow of laughter but he wasn't the one who attended her school. Siya was branded 'strange' and 'queer' thereafter, only her academic prowess saving her from more bullying tactics.

He smells good, a mixture of Siya's talcum - lavender, and the washing powder used in the machine - lime.

He is a real good listener, he never interrupts. He is attentive and his gaze never wanders or gets diverted. He keeps secrets well and has never let out any snippet of information, not to bribes, not to threats. Of course he leads a pretty sheltered life.

He is a good snuggler and fits well under Siya's chin at night. He never hogs the blankets either.

He's always there for Siya, never runs out on her or has another conflicting engaement. He never cries for attention if she is busy colouring and is sure to give an approving look when shown the finished product.

He has the same taste in books as she does and never tires of being 'read to'. Especially since she can read only a few of the books by herself. He's always up when she is, never sleeps at odd times, like midway through an enthralling movie. Papa was guilty of that crime. They were watching the DVD one time and he went to sleep before Cindy went to the ball. Really!

The only thing missing is an ability to 'really-really' (you have to say it twice to get the meaning) hug. At present he can only give think-hugs which are not quite the same thing. But Siya loves him, really-really loves him.

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Siya snuggled further into her blanket, it was now wrapped around her like a cocoon by her constant turning in bed – but she liked it so. She luxuriated in the fact that she must have beaten Mommy’s alarm clock by some minutes; it gave her time to ponder. She looked around her room, at the large picture of a baby Hanuman

A very popular Hindu deity, faithful to Lord Ram. He is the Son of the WindGod. He is both godly and having traits of his mother - a Vanar (monkey) Princess

hanging above her lemon yellow toy-chest, once her favourite 'action hero'. Of late those mythological tales seemed to be too much fantasy, the people there could solve problems by flying in the air or making food out of stones, solutions that eluded her in real life.

Siya turned to her confidante - Ribbons, a battered stuffed bear suffering from loving-girl-pattern baldness. Even the necktie for which he was named was barely recognizable, more a grayish brown stringy length of silk. He was, however, a very good listener.

Siya whispered to him that Mommy was getting awfully grumpy these days, weren’t fat people supposed to be jolly? She had always been her mother’s faithful shadow, but more and more often she got impatient clicks of the tongue where once the response would have been a kiss or a pat. She liked to go to Mommy to get her hair brushed, she could do it herself, but the regular strokes of a loving hand would send her into an ecstatic semi-doze. Without any warning, she had become a big girl, too big to get Mommy to brush her hair. Her lower lip quivered, it wasn’t fair, she just wasn’t ready. Not at only a-bit-past-six.

But Mommy was mean to Papa too; just last night he had his head bitten off for asking if she need help to get up from the low cushioned divan. He was a tall strong man, Siya barely reached past his waist. She got helped by Papa all the time. She liked it when he lifted her up by the waist and swung her to reach for something out of her reach. He would do it to Mommy too, and just a few months back her response would be a giggle, or a maybe a hug when he put her down.

Not last night, though. Mommy had used some big words and a nasty tone :I’m not parawiszed, just very peggant. Or something like that. Papa had jerked back his hand as though it burned, just like the day he tried to open the car door after an afternoon in the hot summer sun.

It was odd though, the house was silent, no sounds of Papa bustling about in the kitchen, dropping things. It was only in the last couple of weeks that Papa did most of the kitchen work, Mommy only put her feet up on chair and watched. Her feet were getting awfully fat too, she could not longer wear even her sneakers, just padded around in bedroom slippers all the day.

Is it Saturday? No, we had had dosas for breakfast yesterday, Mommy made Papa practice dosas

crisp griddle cakes from a paste made by grinding soaked rice and lentils

for Nima’s visit. She’s coming Friday evening and she’s not yet here, so it can’t be Saturday.

Maybe, I am such a big girl now that I don’t need to go to school. So no need for early breakfast, Papa and Mommy are probably sleeping late . Mommy smiles more after she sleeps late. That’s a good idea, Ribbons and I will sleep late too.

Ten minutes later, her troubled mind would not let her slip completely into dreamland. There had been some noises last night, some bumps and thumps and mutters and cries. She even thought she had heard someone come into her room, but she had closed her eyes tight to wish the monsters away. It had worked too, when she had opened them, the little night light had revealed nobody else in the room.

What if the monster-who-gurgles-in-the-sink or the creature-that-lives-in-the-dark came again, later last night? What if Mommy and Papa ... no-ooo, she wouldn't think of that. W-What if it was now on the way to get her?

There were soft footsteps on the landing; they shuffled to the bedroom door. Siya became wide-awake, she clutched Ribbons so tight that he was close to disembowelment. The thing, whatever it was, paused. A listening contest ensued.

The knob was the focus of Siya’s attention, shiny, silvery, softly turning. She quivered, ducking into the covers with barely one fluttering eyelid showing. Her breath came through her open mouth in little hiccups of fear.

Mrs. Williamson’s frizzy grey curls were poked in through the widening gap of doorway.

“So, you are awake, darling. Good.”

An indignant little girl became a blur of motion, racing into her parent’s bedroom, ending in a surprised skid at the empty beds.

“Where are Mommy and Papa? What have you done to them?” Her disheveled appearance lent weight to the accusing words as she glared at a once favourite neighbour. Two arms held stiffly akimbo seemed to say any past consumption of cookies or cake slices would not be taken into account right now.

“Sweetie, Mommy had to go to hospital. Papa drove her there last night and I came over and stayed in the spare room.”

“Mommy? In hospital? Is she parasized after all? I mean, is she peggant? Does it pain? Will they need to take it out?” Siya's last visit to the hospital loomed large in her mind, she'd had a splinter in her hand taken out.

“What?” The barrage of questions confused Mrs Williamson, little children were more than twenty years past in her life and she was rusty with her responses. She rolled her eyes at the obvious naivety of the questions posed. She too had been a proponent of the 'tell-Siya' lobby, but nothing and nobody had prevailed over Nandy's stubborn insistence on going her own way. If only Jaya, Nandy's mother had already been here, it might have helped, but the baby had come a bit early and upset all plans.

“Honey, it’s nothing bad. You’ll see. We’ll have a great breakfast first, then we’ll get the house spick and span. Then you can have lunch and a nap and your Papa will pick you up and take you to meet Gran at the airport, OK?”

“No, I want to go to see Mommy ... n-now. “ The ultimatum faltered halfway through and there was forlorn longing at the end.

“You can’t go until visiting hours, and anyway Mommy will be all sleepy now, after the – ummm – thing.”

“She won’t be too sleepy to see me. I’m her Sunshine - her little Rani

a queen, in Hindi

- her Pankudi

vernacular diminutive for petal

.Each title was accompanied by a further lengthening of an outthrust lower lip and a voice that rose to near-hysterical pitch.

Here Siya sat down and started sobbing, and that, a thankful Mrs. Williamson knew how to deal with. She knelt on the wooden floorboards, gathered Siya within her comforting and encircling arms and pulled her onto an ample lap. She laid her grey head on the soft flowing black tresses that were all that were visible of a downcast head, she crooned vague comforting words, and they both rocked back and forth.

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Siya stumbled a little as she negotiated up the incline. She always ran up the slope instead of taking the steps to New Era Hospital, but today her feet were not sure whether to run or to shuffle. She wanted to see Mommy so bad it hurt her throat to say it, but she was also afraid of what she would find when they got there. Nima had tried to give the child gentle hints, but without permission to reveal the whole, it only accentuated Siya's fears.

Why would Mommy have to go to hospital to get me a surprise. What I really want is those water-colour pencils from Germany, Mommy could ask Ravi Mama to get those. She must be so ill they don't want to tell me - or maybe she's grown wings like an angel.

Siya and her troubled thoughts had been making progress through the maternity wing, guided by a gentle hand between her shoulder blades. Now the door loomed in front of her, uncaring and large, blandly beige in colour. She reached back and groped for Nima's hand, the little fingers curling over the knobbly ones of her grandmother.

"Nima, please could you go in first?"

Nima nodded and her sari rustled as she went past, Siya hovered just behind her, only her head peeping out at Nima's waist.

Mommy was lying in the bed at the far end, the pale blue covers were half-drawn back, there was a small bolster at her side that she seemed to be trying to readjust.

A dam broke in Siya's heart and she gave a great gulping sob as she ran forward to throw herself at her mother.

A white face jerked up in alarm and one slim arm was upraised to ward her off. Papa came from nowhere to catch her by the waist and swing her around, but for once, Siya wasn't squealing in delight.

Three voices were raised and the commands collided unpleasantly in her ear. She understood that she was to be careful of being near something on the bed.

Is it a spider perhaps? But no, Mommy is peering down at that bolster as though it contains something delicate and breakable - like the ugly vase she always keeps high above my reach.

Siya took two tentative steps forward, tears of rejection sparkling on her lashes.

Why there's a face on that bolster - how strange. Is it a doll? It has curls, and eyes without lashes, and real red lips.

"Here's your baby brother darling - but he is very very delicate, so you can't don't hold him just yet."

This sausage in cloth? My brother? Brothers are like Anuj, a little smaller, but they can do everything you can, and they call you Didi.This thing is limp and red and more like a crumpled cabbage leaf.

A this point the cabbage leaf started to wail, piercing angry sounds that turned both her parents into dervishes revolving around the bundle. It seemed the only way to stop the sound was for Mommy to turn around and hold him real close. Siya thought he was wet. That proved literally so after Mommy turned back again. Siya watched the ministration to his bottom in stoic silence. Her visit was thrice punctuated by various such combinations of incidents and each one further convinced her he wasn't fun to be around. In fact the last time the smell was terrible, she thought they could bottle that smell and use it as pesticide.

She had managed to get a big hug from Mommy and get a few words of affection, but it was her father who held her in his arms for the most part. He forgot to call her Pankudi or Rani though. Mostly he kept looking at his watch, as though he was anxious for time to pass.

"Well, Siya, how would you like to go to the cafeteria and get an ice-cream?"

Ice-cream I could have got at the corner store; I wanted to sit on Mommy's lap and tell her all about my day.

"OK, Papa."

One small vanilla cup later -they don't even have chocolate-chip - she was on her way out with Nima. Comfortable, soft and unchanged Nima. She is the only one who wants to be with me.

He escorted them down and put them into a taxi, bending down to give his strangely quiet daughter a kiss, it landed awkwardly on her head. She wasn't holding up her face, in eagerness for his salute, but Siddarth had no time to wonder why.

He had turned to go back even before the taxi jerked away from the curb, he never saw the anxious little face that waited for him to wave good-bye. A face that turned into her grand-mother's shoulder and pretended to sleep all the way home.

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Siya was troubled and thinking about her problem made her silent. Nima noticed that a garrulous child had become strangely silent but she had had a number of shocks to absorb.

All in one day she'd had to deal with parents missing from home when she woke up, being cared for only by a neighbour for nearly 10 hours, albeit a well-loved neighbour, but still not 'family'. She'd driven all the way out to the airport to pick up her grandmother, again well-loved, but needing time to establish the old bond. As yet, it was a half-remembered familiarity that allowed her to hide her face in the shoulder or hold her hand, but it did not invite intimate confidences as yet.

She had been to the hospital,worrying all the way about her mother, having witnessed a rare altercation between her parents the previous night. They were a loving family and harsh words were are, although banter and argument was common.

She'd absorbed the fact that Mommy had something new and delicate to occupy her attention, something called a baby. They tried to make it a out to be her brother, but she knew brother's could not be useless lumps. She had left this one at the hospital, labelled as a wet crumpled cabbage leaf, pretty useless by any standards.

She was also trying to make sense of her mother's repeated assurances that she was a 'big' girl now. Her problem was how big and what were her ways of determining that? What expected of her elevation to this dizzy height? Other than brushing her own hair it was hard to decide what else she was to do. So she ate her night meal of three bean gravy and rice without once commenting upon it. Nima let her brood, thinking that Shakespeare must have included small girls in the definition of those whose 'sleep knitted up the ravelled sleeve of care'.

The next day dawned bright and clear, crisp with promise of a nip in the weather. A welcome change from the muggy warmth of Mumbai that Nima had left behind, yet she too found no pleasure in it. It might have been the jet lag, it might have been transferred worry, but both generations of Nandy's family were content to have a quiet breakfast. Nima was pondering on how she seemed to become a different person in the US. The first change was her name, nobody called her 'Maaji' or 'Aaji', the respectful terms used for an elder lady back home, first names were the rule here not matter what the age. then too, they all though her name was Nima, that's what Siya called her. But, that was only a contraction from her far off baby days, when her tongue could not quite roll around the word for maternal grandmother - Nanima. It had stuck and she had a whole new identity, she forgot that she was Jaya, retired government servant, ruled by clocks and files. Here she was Nima, fun, loving and full of stories about India, Siya just gobbled up the relation of events in those strange places Nima knew so well.

Siya spooned up the last bit of her upma, looking at her grand-mother for praise. The gleaming plate got her a loving kiss and a whispered, "Good girl."

"Pack me some more of this stuff for my lunch, will you Nima? What's that green stuff you put in? I'll tell people it's broccoli, that way nobody will want to share"

"Now, Siya, that's not polite, there's plenty to spare. I'll put in a bit extra and you can tell your friends these are green lentils, tender chickpeas. They can be eaten raw, they are that tasty, but these are boiled, along with the rava in the upma."

"What's rava, again?"

"Cream of wheat, dear. They call it cream of wheat, or creamed wheat."

"Good, sound yucky enough, all the more for me." One hint of the irrepressible spirit flashed out in a grin and a wink as Siya picked up her lunch box."

Nima just gave her a soft reproving squeeze of her shoulders and then opened the door for her to wait for the school bus on the kerb.

"Nima, I can get to the end of the road by myself and if you stand here you can wave me off. It will save you the bother of locking and unlocking the door."

This was a reprieve indeed, there were so many deadbolts and stiff locks that the door was a feat to secure or open. Quite beyond Nima who just pulled her apartment door to close on an automatic latch. Apartments were so much safer than houses, even if they were down market.

The yellow bus lumbered up to the stop and made a soft whoosh of air-brakes as it came to a stand-still. Chatter and excited exchanges from unseen occupants could be heard as Siya turned and waved before stepping in. The bus passed by and Siya had reached a window to lean out and wave, Nima hoped the voices were friendly ones and that Siya was happy and secure at school. She deserved to feel one part of her life was unchanged.

Anyway, it was not her place to judge. Having made that decision her contrary mind promptly castigated her daughter for not involving and preparing Siya better for her brother's birth. He might have been premature, but that's not how I did it with her and Ravi. She was all eager and ready for her little brother long before he was born, even planned out the sleeping arrangements herself. They too were premature, and it was so much more of a struggle in those days, especially in India. It's not that big a deal out here, three weeks premature is almost as good as term.

But she vowed to keep her thoughts to herself and instead busied herself getting all the paraphernalia ready for Nandy's homecoming. The antique white crib was wiped down with soap and disinfectant, aired and blow-dried. Mattress turned and fluffed and fresh linen went on, long bolsters lined the sides. A mobile was hung from the top, it could be wound up to play three different tunes, they all sounded the same to Nima. The changing table with dresser drawers went next to it, in matching white with a lemon yellow ruffle to match the linen. The drawers were filled with all the accessories a baby could need, and even some that might never be needed. Nima looked a one that smelled like something the tide brought in and found it indeed had kelp as an ingredient. Apparently for cracked and sore nipples. She was glad they just had vaseline in the old days.

Finally she could lean back on tired heels and pronounce the room ready.

Hurricane Sid boomed into the house just then, a series of clicks as he let himself in and came bounding up the stairs two at a time.

"Nima! Where are ..." he broke off in wonder as he came into the bedroom and saw the results of her morning's work.

She was pulled up into a bear hug and lauded as a wonder woman.

"Thanks so much. I was dreading having to do it, I would have put the shaving gel where the nappy rash cream ought to be and have been screaming and screamed at, simultaneously."

"You a are a shameless palaver, Sid. But cupboard love is better than none."

"This is crib and baby accessory love, Nima. Let me look at you, have you lost weight again?"

"You know just how to flatter a woman, Sid, but be content with making a conquest of one woman in our family."

"Ah, Nima, if only I had met you first, Nandy wouldn't have got a second look. But she was too canny to let me meet you until I was well and truly hooked."

"Considering you came over on a trip to Mumbai and delivered a parcel to me a bare two months after you met her ..."

"Ah, I meant to confess my love and ask for your hand even then, but you fed me so much my stomach weighed down my tongue. The large parcel of goodies you sent back told me you were worth your weight in gold, but it was not be ..."

He had her laughing and shaking her head at his outrageous comments, but the two of them did have a very loving relationship. Nima knew her daughter was 'difficult' to handle and admired Sid's coping humour and gentle stepping back when that was required. In turn, he appreciated the strong values she had inculcated in his wife, whom he knew as a warm and caring person at heart.

The two of them proceeded down to the kitchen exchanging news and playing catch-up with events in India

"Nandy and the baby should be home tomorrow by mid-morning, is that OK?"

"Sure, they could walk in right now as far as I am concerned. But it is Siya you should think about, let her at least participate in the homecoming and preparations. Talk to her, Sid, she was awfully quiet at breakfast."

"If my little chatter-box is silent it means trouble."

The two exchanged a worried look, then Sid espied the remains of the green lentil upma. "Tur dana upma? Nima, you are a wonder! Can I have some?"

"Of course, but lunch is ready, it is only dal chaval and some capsicum fritters."

"Who said I was going to eat only this? I'll have some of everything. Don't tell Nandy, but your cooking trumps hers."

Nima gave a loud sniff, "Yes, you say that to all the women in your life. When you go home to Ahmedabad you must be telling Ba that 'Tara haath ni rasoi jevi kai pan nati' - or is my Gujarati rusty?"

His laugh resounded in the room, they thought no more of Siya as they pandered to appetite and curiosity about each others' lives.

~@~@~@~@~@~@~@~@~@~@~@~@@~@~@~@~@~@~@~

Siya headed out to the backyard alone, even Ribbons did not accompany her. She wanted to be alone to think things out, Ribbons would only agree with each jumbled fact produced, it did not help to come to any sort of decision.

Mommy seemed to expecting more of her today, after she and baby had come home from the hospital. She kept called her my big girl instead of Pankudi. Once she even called her 'Big Sister' and smiled, but Siya did not know what delighted her so much about that term. What was being big anyway? She was not one ounce heavier than yesterday or the day before, she still just topped Papa's belt. She hadn't outgrown a single item of clothing, so how was one to decide the issue of growing big?

Siya's wanderings brought her slap against the ditch that bordered the back of their property, it was deep and wide and was meant for rain water run-off. It now had merely some two inches of oily sludge from repeated car washes on the sidewalk, dead leaves aplenty and other icky stuff, she shuddered to look at it. But an idea was forming in her mind, a way to determine if she had attained the grand status of being 'big'.

Two minutes later the back door was opened by a sobbing and sopping child. It took Nima and Nandy some moments to realise it was Siya, only a loud wail of "Mommy, Nimaaaa!" clued them in.

They rushed to prevent the kitchen being invaded by the horror from outer space, all covered in dripping green slime, leaves sticking out from everywhichwhere, even one rising from atop a plastered head.

Nima slipped quickly past and grabbed a large bath towel from the clothesline.

Nandy had hold of her daughter's shoulder with just her fingertips and was directing her to stand still.

"Hold it right there, young lady. What happened? Where have you been?" The voice did not start out harsh but it was rising into shrill accusation by the end. Nandy had been up thrice in the night to feed the baby and she was not in the most receptive or patient mood.

Nima just wrapped the towel around an unresisting and unresponsive child, noting the desolation in the drooping figure. She noted too that one elbow was cupped in the other hand and that the breathing was irregular enough to suggest suppressed tears. She swept the child into her arms and began to walk to the guest bedroom.

"I'll give her a wash in my room, it's handier. Let's leave the rest for later."

Nandy might have argued about her authority being usurped if she wasn't so tired. She finished her glass of milk and headed back up, she needed to get back to her infant son, so that Sid could get ready to go to work, he'd already missed two days straight.

The towel was spread out on the bathroom floor, the clothes were being peeled off a stiff body that stood like a wax doll. Water gushed into the tub in a cloud of warmth and vapour.

Nima added in a generous amount of aromatic bath oils to sweeten the rank odour permeating the small room. She dipped in a washcloth and wrung it out, taking care to wipe off the majority of the dirt and slime. Her mindset did not allow a dirty body to settle into clean water to wash itself with the dirtied water. In an Indian set up there would have been a tiled floor, a large drain and buckets of water to sluiced over the body to rinse and clean it. Carpeted baths, which did not allow the scrubbing of floors made for unsanitary conditions in her mind. Her own bathroom was small, but even the grouted joints were pale cream and clean from her daily applications of a brush to the floor.

Siya's fingers had to be gently pried off the elbow where a cautious application of cloth revealed a bad crape that welled little droplets of fresh blood. One underlip was caught between determined white teeth and not a sound escaped Siya's lips. Nima did not ask or probe anything, just held the now quivering body close in an embrace.

The sympathetic gesture broke the wall of resistance as no storming assault of words could have done. Nima's shoulder became damp from the flood of tears and racking sobs tore through the slight body.

"Hush, sweetie, it's all washable, we'll have you clean and comfy in no time."

"I'm not big Nima, I tried but I am not big enough."

The mysterious confession was accepted with a comforting hug and the child was plonked in the warm tub.

Nima continued with the winning technique of not asking questions and the story came out in bits and pieces as she shampooed the hair and rinsed it twice.

"I wondered how I could find out if I was big now, as Mommy says I am. I'm not taller, or fatter than before I started first grade so it must be something else. I thought and thought but I couldn't figure it out. Then I went to the backyard to think it out. The apple tree branch is still too high for me, the swing seat just right for my legs to reach the ground, I still cannot move the fallen tree stump Papa made into a seat."

Nima let made Siya stand up as she let the water drain out of the tub, using some of the warm water running in to rinse her body of residual soap. Steadying the child with one hand she reached behind her for a fresh towel, fluffy and warm from the rack.

As she wrapped Siya in the comforting fold she made noises to signify she was listening.

"Anyway, I came to the ditch that runs at the very back, you know?"

"Yes, the street at the back needs that run-off for rain water since the property slopes there."

"It had no water in it or I wouldn't have tried. But Raghu Mama always does ..." the voice trailed off in hesitation, wondering if she should tell tales of her uncle.

I might have known that son of mine would still be getting into trouble, even at this age.

"Yes, Ravi Mama always does, doesn't he?" It is a mean trick to play on the child, but it isn't exactly a lie, Nima comforted an uneasy conscience.

Happy that her grandmother appeared aware of his peccadilloes, Siya had no further qualms about telling on him.

"He parks his car there, 'cos we don't have space in our garage and it's a dead-end street. Then instead of coming all the way back to the front he just jumps the ditch. He does it with his bags in hand too. He saw me one time and told me to never ever do it myself."

He got one part of it right, at least, the laidback lizard that he is, was his mother's grudging thought.

"But, then why did you, honey? He specifically told you NOT to."

"Because he said he did it cause he was big. I am big now, even Papa said it that night."

Here Siya gave a gasp, Nima had applied some anti-septic lotion to the scrape, it stung like hundreds of ants biting at the same time.

The gasp became an indignant condemnation, the indrawn breath being let out in a loud reprimand.

"But I'm not. I fell right in, you are all wrong."

Nima caught the pointed chin in one hand and forced the angry eyes to look directly into hers, beads of moisture lay on the lashes and made the eyes sparkle with emotion.

"I think we were wrong, I am sorry. But, so were you sweetie. Big is not absolute, it is relative."

"Huh?"

"Come on, put on these fresh clothes and I'll get you some hot milk to drink when you're out. Then we'll talk about being big."

"Can I have badam milk, Nima? With froth and all?"

"Yes, I got the powder especially for my Pankudi"

It wasn't quite as good to have only Nima still call her Pankudi, but it was better than nothing. Siya gave a nod and picked up the fresh panties first.

Nima had a grim expression on her face as she bustled about the kitchen, the drawn lips and furrowed brow were enough to make Sid comment, "What's up?"

"Sid, I hate to interfere, but you two have to realise this is a shock to Siya, she's just not ready to be thrust into the role of elder sibling until she learns what siblings are. She is still very much a little girl and it will only confuse her if you demand instant responsibility from her."

She tried to give him the short version of what had happened as she heated milk in a saucepan and made a paste of the almonds and other spices with a little cold milk. The spoon made little clinks of disapproval against the side of the glass as she talked.

She found Sid receptive but helpless in tackling the issue.

"What do I do? I cannot ask Nandy to tackle both children at the same time right now."

"Right, only she can look after Ved's needs right now, so I suggest you leave Siya to me. I promise to be unobtrusive about it. Just make noises of agreement when you can, y'know approval like a laughter track." Nima gave him a look that told him she did not think much of this sitcom device.

Sid nodded, he was out of his element here, Siya was so vulnerable and he was worried about her withdrawal too. She had stopped being spontaneous, looking anxiously around before even a simple action like asking if she could watch a cartoon.

Siya padded in, the tell-tale glance for permission to sit at the table tuggged at Sid's heart. He just drew out the chair next to his and patted it, he could not speak. Siya chose to make her way to Nima's side and give her a hug around the waist. She pulled out a chair at that end, slid her bottom onto it in a prim way that showed she was being on her best behaviour.

"Here you go, Siya. Sip it slowly, it's hot." Nima handed her a tall glass full of the hot frothy milk, there was a long spoon in it to dig for the bits of dried fruits, which tended to settle at the bottom.

Siya wrapped both hands around the glass and let the warmth seep through. She looked only into the glass as long as her father took to down his coffee and pick up his briefcase to leave for work. She accepted her curls being ruffled and even muttered, ''Bye Papa". She never raised her head until the front door went through its routine of click-clack-double-clack as it was shut.

"Nima, tell me about being big."

"Darling, big is a comparison. To a bush, a tree is big, but to grass, the bush is big. To an ant the dog is big, but to an elephant the dog will look small."

"Yes, I suppose so, but what about becoming big."

"Even then, the strange thing is that big people will still be small to people who were big when they were small. Your Raghu Mama for all his being big, is always my little boy. He still puts his head on my shoulder when he sits next me, right?"

"So, I'll never be big for Mommy or Papa?"

"You'll grow older and bigger and taller and stronger. You will be able to do things that big people do, like go to college or work. But you will always be their little girl."

"So, why does Mommy say I am big now?"

"Well, there's a baby in the house now. He looks up to you and needs you to be big for him."

"Baby needs nobody but Mommy right now."

"Maybe, but she is getting you ready for the day when you can be his Didi."

"What if I don't want to be his Didi?"

"You are his Didi, no choice there. But you do not need to do anything because you are. He only wants to love you."

If cabbage leaves want anything other than long tight Mommy-hugs and fresh nappies, the scornful thought was not known to Nima but the expression of distaste was clear.

Would you like to hear a story about another brother and sister? Where the sister was the little one and the brother took care of her?

"Really? I wish I could have that. A big brother is better than a little one."

"Brothers do not remain little all the time, your Raghu Mama now tales care of Mommy does he not? Yet he is her little brother."

"Really? But he doesn't call her Didi."

"We used to speak a different language when they were kids, he calls her Akka, does he not? That means elder sister in Kannada."

"Do you know any stories of elder sisters?"

"Yes, I do."

"Real ones, not fairy tale ones."

"Why what's wrong with fairy tales?"

"Well, they solve problems with magic wands and spells that do not work for me. I want to know of real little boys and girls."

"If you promise to smile, I'll tell you of those at bedtime."

The smile popped out in a ready response, the almost dimple at the corner of her upper lip made its rare appearance. That night began the saga of Oddventures of Ordinary Children. That's the title under which they were published and Siya was the first one to hear them.

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It was the height of the monsoons in Mumbai; everybody and his uncle seemed to be encased in some form of rain protection, be it the ubiquitous 'Duckback' black raincoat, or the large black umbrella. Some cautious souls had both, a necessity in the fierce rains that seemed to blow almost horizontally and get into the back of one's neck and into one's eyes simultaneously. The umbrellas were often turned inside out by the gusts of wind, to be shaken back the right side out by an adept manouver familiar to all the denizens of that seaside city.

Streets got flooded according to the state of the tide, if it was going out, fine; if it was coming in, trouble loomed. But, people teemed the streets undaunted by the forces of nature, only if the buses stalled, or the trains could not go on would they give up attempts to reach work. Schools too rarely shut for such reason, otherwise they would have a two month monsoon vacation.

Jaya shrugged on her raincoat with disgust, it wasn't even drizzling outside but she had to wear this heavy hot coat all the way to school, for the skies could open up without warning. In one minute a blue sky from which a pale sun would wink down, the next it would have thick clumps of black clouds swooping in and coalescing like drops of mercury do. Then the downpour, like an upturned bucket in the sky - cascading sheets of rain, with large drops that hit with the force of pelted stones.

Worse were the huge and clumping monstrosities that were called gum-boots, they were worn over school shoes and looked like outsize clown footwear. They were black too, they looked and felt as though the tar road had softened in the fierce summer heat and wrapped itself around her feet. They even smelt the same, sulphurous and pungent. She hated them.

"Here you go, Jaya." Appa

Father in Kannada

was calling out to her from the bedroom.

Jaya ran in on eager feet, her father often brought things for her from his many sales trips around India. He had just returned last night from Calcutta, or as he called it - Kolkotta.

"What is it, Appa?"

He held out something at arm's length, it was blue, it was bright, it was a pair of ... gumboots. But, these were darling ones, more her size and with a double border of white with just a bit of curlicue at the front. He was drawing out something else, a raincoat to match, this one was white with blue edging. She gave a fervent thank you with her glowing eyes, trying on the attire; her mother walked in, thinking her husband had called out to her. She espied the dainty blue boots now skipping around the bedroom.

"But, the boots are too small, they will never fit over her school shoes."

"No, no, they are meant for bare feet, that's how they use them in the East."

"What about school shoes, I suppose she will carry them on her head like the villagers do?" Jaya's mom had a knack for sarcastic questions delivered in a soft voice.

There was one more item to be given, it was a blue and white pouch with drawstrings - made to hold a pair of shoes and socks. It could be slotted onto the belt of the raincoat.

"She'll take them in this and change in school."

"I suppose you have bought the same things for your son too?"

"Actually, Lata, I didn't have his size. Jaya's was easy because my friend's daughter is the same age and we fit these on her. I thought if it did not fit Jaya then I could take it with me when I go back next week." A sniff suggested that Appa was not entirely absolved of being partial to his daughter, but was being let off for lack of evidence.

Jaya was prancing around the room in the new rain wear and Lata knew that it she might even wear it all day. Always the way with her enthusiastic daughter.

She bent down to feel the toes and found a lot of room, "You had better wear socks inside that for this season Jaya, otherwise you feet will get sore in the large size boots."

"Okay Ma," this cheery acquiescence would last as long as the item retained its coveted status.

Jaya did wear those boots as long as she could, having to be coaxed to take them off after coming home. She would then stomp petulantly into the bathroom and take them off, stripping off socks that would be later gathered for a wash.

Three days and three pairs of socks later, Lata found a strange discrepancy, Raj had just put his first of socks for a wash. She called out to him.

"Raj, why aren't you changing your socks everyday, it isn't good to wear damp ones, you will get fungal infection between the toes."

"But, Ma, my socks weren't damp."

"That's funny. Jaya's socks have been sopping wet and dirty every day. Why weren't yours wet too?"

If Lata had looked down at that moment she might have seen a guilty flush rising into the cheeks of her mischievous younger child. But she was looking at Raj, her dependable and obedient son, who never got into trouble. Jaya continued to sprawl prone on the floor, she pretended to be engrossed in the science text that was open before her. Never before had caterpillars and butterflies held less appeal, she loved reading 'ahead' in that book, it had pictures that illustrated such interesting things. But right now, her fate hung in the balance. She knew the extent of her misdoings, not quite disobedience, yet it would not be approved of by her strict parent. Raj was fully in the know too, he had kept faith so far, but this was a direct question and he never lied.

Raj laughed, a deep laugh that showed his voice had steadied into its adult tone now. He was thirteen to Jaya's seven, a full six years her senior and protective of her, although he pretended a vast indifference.

"Really, Ma, I am not seven. The puddles don't rise more than two inches above my ankle!"

Lata gave a rueful laugh and turned back to her laundry sorting. The bent head of her daughter slumped a little in relief.

Raj would have given Jaya a stern look if her head hadn't been bowed, two wings of hair hiding a flushed face. He bent down to pick up his school bag and took the chance to whisper,"Don't expect me to cover for you every time, you repellent brat."

The grin that crossed his face a moment later, gave away his bias. The mental image was just too funny. Ma had miserably failed as detective. The past three days had had only sporadic rain and the puddles were few and far between, just at the bottoms of sloping roads. It was true they didn't reach a couple of inches above his ankles. They were barely half-way up Jaya's gum-boots either, but she would jump up and down in them, in ecstatic abandon. Raj would walk on the other side of the road, one wary eye on his little sister, but trying to project the impression that he was on his own - not responsible for her madcap juvenile stunts.

He had once asked her why she wanted to jump in the puddles and was struck by the logic of her answer, "What else are puddles meant for, Anna

brother in Kannada

? He had no answer, what were puddles meant for? Her obvious glee and total absorption in the joy of the moment tugged at his heart and he vowed to keep her that happy always.

An adoring face was now turned up to his, in awe of his ready answer that had turned aside a sure scolding. It assured him that at least the next couple of days would be prank-free, for Jaya was as mischievous as she was affectionate. But he'd take what he got, she was his kid sister and that was all that mattered.

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"Was Jaya always mischievous? Did Raj save his sister again?" Excitement shone in Siya's face, she thought it wonderful that the story had as its focus a naughty child. Not the goody goody kind who could never be emulated. Not that she was going to imitate Jaya, just that it made her so real.

"Yes, lots of times. He even saved her long after they were grown up."

"Really, tell me about it."

"It's time for those searchlights to be turned off." Nima pointed at the eyes dancing in pleasurable anticipation.

"But tomorrow, you will tell me about it?"

"Tomorrow you get the story of the elder sister, the one who is adored by a younger brother. I call it the 'Doo' story."

"The Do Story? What is that? Whatever do you mean? Does he do something?"

"He does a lot of things, but here it is all about his saying 'Doo'"

"He says 'do'? Is he getting married? No, you said he's a little kid."

"Not another word. If you're not asleep when I come back to check, the session tomorrow is cancelled."

Not exactly designed as a soporific, yet the inducement and threat combined to ensure Siya promptly fell off to sleep and dream. Vaguely pleasant dreams where Mommy kissed her and said she was her darling girl. She did not know that Nandy it was who checked in on her and tucked the comforter around the bare shoulder peeping out from under it. She was unaware of the soft hand that brushed one flushed cheek and bent to kiss her.

Nandy returned to Ved's crib to find her mother cooing softly to him, he wasn't crying like he normally did on waking, he was looking around with wide-open eyes. She took over and hovered over the crib, he was content to lie there.

"How do you do that? If I am not around when he wakes, he yells his head off. If he spots Sid it's even worse."

"At this age, your face is about the only one he can recognise, that too when close up. So I took care not to get close but spoke in soft tones, our voices are not dissimilar, I guess. No sudden moves, no loud noises, he's not wet, not yet hungry. Let him be. He needs to learn he can be safe and comfortable even lying there."

Nandy gave her mother a fierce hug. She was glad she was there, books told you these things, but who could remember all of it when the baby was yelling at 105 decibels? Not quite an opportunity to leaf through the index looking for 'screaming incessantly, causes of'.

"Thanks for everything, Ma."

"You are welcome, my darling child."

Nandy wondered why why mother smiled so when she said those last words.

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Siya and Nima were snuggled together in her bed, it wasn't bedtime, but right in the middle of afternoon. Normally Saturday afternoon would never find Siya inside the house, certainly not without her beloved crayons and lots of A4 sheets of paper from the fax machine. Of late though, Siya had become less active and more pensive and when Nima said her bones were tired after cleaning up the lunch dishes, Siya sighed a gusty agreement.

They had made their way to bed and just snuggled there, each one had a companionable arm wrapped around the others' body. Nima told excellent stories, but Siya wondered if her tired bones would allow her to talk at all.

"Nima, does your tongue have any bones?"

A smothered laugh and narrowed eyes showed no offense at the question, "No, darling certainly not. Would you like to talk?"

"Uh-huh."

"About what?"

"No, you go first."

Nima presumed this was going to be the juvenile version of 'truth or dare', Heaven alone knew what the rules were, she would have to feel her way through a tricky morass. But she was willing to that and more for a grandchild who was affectionate, obedient, intelligent and just a bit neglected at the moment.

"Why do you think Ribbons loves you so much?"

Siya was silent, Nima was surprisingly good at this stuff, she'd asked her a question pretty similar to the ones she'd intended to fire. But, she played fair, so she thought things out. Why did Ribbons love her so much?

"I guess because I love him very much in the first place, he doesn't know anything except love." The answer surprised even the sage who delivered it, love begets only love in return? File that away for future reference.

"Now it's my turn."

She took a little time to ask her question without a hint of emotion showing, it was supposed to be casual whiling away of a lazy afternoon.

"Why do babies stick so much to their Mommy, and why does she need to be around them all the time?"

Nima had to hide the indrawing of her breath, this had already cut pretty close to the bone, it was only the start. She gathered her wits and used the American device of hemming and hawing to gain a little time.

"Umm ... ahh... well you could say ..." here she saw Mrs Purrfect in the window and the idea bulb gowed bright."Remember when Mr. Purrfect was found to be not quite so perfect?"

Siya nodded, she remembered that day very well, in fact it was she who had told Nima all about it.

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Siya skipped over to the next door house, a basket of Mommy's baked rice crisps in her over her arm. Mrs Williamson loved to dunk those in her tea and eat them, it sounded yucky, but she loved the taste of the crisps softened by the hot beverage. Oil-free was the magic word, just one teaspoon of butter for the entire batch, that is all the recipe called for, at least Mommy's modification of it.

She loved going over to Mrs. Willaimson's place. It had a lot of stuff she allowed Siya to play with, terming it 'just some foreign junk'. For Siya these were bits of far-away places and she was free to imagine another little girl and what she might have done with the set of tiny lacquered bowls, or with the four-sided clock that had a horizontal pendulum. It was also a source of cookies, Mommy's five-grain cookies were good, but Siya never let on that these choco-chip ones were yummy. The final inducement, if any was required was the friendly ginger cat that shared her house, Mr. Purrfect. Mrs. Williamson always chuckled so that her entire front jiggled when she said this, adding that his purr was perfect. Siya never got the joke but she joined in the laugh, the sight of an entire front of a person shaking with just a throaty chuckle was funny enough.

The bells was too high for Siya so she just used the latch to rap twice. It was their signal.

Siya had delivered the goodies, disposed of two large chocolate chip cookies and declined the third with only faint regret, they were having rajma chaval for dinner, one of her favorite meals. She was now wandering in the yard, hoping the cat would show himself on a window ledge, so she could pet him. He allowed her to do that and made a lovely sound when she did, like he had swallowed a clockwork toy that had gone off inside him, brrr ... brrr... brrrrrrrr.

No, ginger cat. Not on any of the window ledges. Her sneaker lace was coming loose, being a careful child, she sat down and turned all her attention to undoing, retying and making the knot tight, "Bunny pricks up its ears, right goes over..."

Somebody was hissing her attempts to get it right but she was not distracted, she tied the knot and jerked the laces flat, then looked around. But there wasn't anyone, there weren't any kids on this street anyway, who else would hiss at tying shoelaces?

There, it came from behind and down, she turned to see two baleful eyes peeping out from under the porch, why, it was Mr. Purrfect. Not quite so perfect, he had become quite the couch potato recently but was now sylph thin and had his fur standing up like he'd just blow-dried it too much. Her outstretched hand got the hissing turned on loud and couple of swipes of a paw that streaked out. Alarmed, she froze and called out to his owner.

The portly lady came bustling out onto the porch, puffing a bit because the urgency in Siya's voice had made her hurry.

"Whatever is the matter darling? Did you fall? Are you hurt?"

"Take care Mrs. Williamson, come from that side. Come and see who is hiding under your porch."

Five ginger steps later a wary Mrs. Williamson was relieved to see no desperate felon but only one spitting angry cat. The sudden decrease in size struck her too, even in the gloom underneath it was obvious, the silhouette was thin and half-starved ... or, wait ... Mr. Purrfect had been gorging lately and then vanished since night before last. Maybe ... she chirruped to her cat and the animal streaked into her arms. As she soothed her she saw more movement in the space there, it convinced her the hypothesis was right. Mr. Purrfect was neither perfect, nor was he Mr.

Siya looked on in disgust as Mrs. Williamson's front began to shake once more and tears streamed down her eyes. Who can understand grown-ups? But the sight did the usual trick, they both laughed and Purrfect purred.


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"Yes, Nima. I remember. Purrfect did not come out of that space for about a month, or maybe more. We left food on a dish there for her. She came to Mrs. Williamson for petting once or twice in that time, but otherwise kept in there. She never let me go near the whole time, not came to me."

"I suppose, after Mrs. Williamson, that cat loved you most of all humans?"

"Until those kitties came along."

"That's not true Siya, remember you told me how you were in the yard one day and saw her carrying her kittens out, one by one? How after she took them into the house she came and rubbed against your legs and purred like the old Purrfect?"

"Mhm-hmmm." This was a grudging acceptance of the truth, Siya could not tell a lie even if she were asked to.

"She even let you touch the kittens after that, they used to play within your outstretched legs, all five of them. Don't you have that Polaroid shot Mrs. Williamson took of you that way?"

Another non-committal grunt was an auditory check mark.

"What I am trying to tell you is that when the kittens are very small they can only be fed by the mother, sudden sounds and lights can disturb them and make them nervous, even shock them into not feeding. So she kept the kittens hidden from even those she loved. She loved you all still, but the kitties needed her, nobody else could have done that job."

"Mhmm-hmmm," this time around the noise was less assent, more of thoughtful application to her own situation.

Nima pushed her luck, they hadn't named names, but ..."even Baby Ved needs to be fed only by Mommy right now, do you see Daddy giving him tight and long hugs?"

"No-oo, but he spends a lot of time in that room."

"It is his room, isn't it dear, he spent that time there anyway, he hasn't asked you not to go in as you used to before. But you do need to be quiet if the baby is sleeping."

"That's another thing, all he does is eat or sleep, who wants to go in anyway?" Siya saw no contradiction in her outburst, Nima ignored it.

"That's how babies can use all the energy from food to grow, he'll soon be big enough to come out of his room and that will be the time you can play with him."

I don't want to play with him, I want Purrfect, I mean Mommy, back.

There were no further questions, or else a doozy of one was on the way. After five minutes of silence Nima raised her head for a quick peek. Siya's lashes were fanned against her pale cheeks, her breath was shallow and even, she seemed to have fallen asleep. Nima turned her face into the fluffy pillow and settled down for a quick nap too. Now even her brain was tired.

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Nima deposited a demurely pyjama clad Siya in her bed, tucking the bedclothes under a chin that had a decided dimple.

"Well, I know all the kinds of stories you don't want, how about telling me what you do want."

"Nima, I am just tired of make-believe, it becomes so boring. I want something like Christopher Robin and Winnie-the-Pooh. But not those either, I have heard all those. Something like that, only new!

"That's a pretty tall order, but I think I can do exactly that. How would you like to hear a story about a little girl, just about your age, and Rinku, her rabbit?"

"A rabbit, she had a rabbit, a real one?"

"Just as real as Ribbons."

"And she is a real little girl?"

"As real as you."

The little form wriggled in anticipation of a good story.

"You know, Siya, that girl liked fairy tales a lot, she even made up some of her own."

"She did? How?"

"Sshh - let me tell you in my own way."

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Nanni’s face materialised over the banister, three steps up from the hallway.

“Aren’t you coming with me, Mommy?”

Jaya had shooed her into going to bed with a firm but loving hand on her reluctant bottom. Even at six, she was an expert at squeezing extra minutes beyond her bed-time. Her mother had just issued the times-up edict; prising the TV remote from a pleading hand.

“Pet, just go on up, I’ll be there in a minute.”

“Uh-uh, the stairs make a kweek, now.”

Her face had that determined look that said I-will-not-budge. Jaya knew it of old; her little daughter had a stubbornness that would shame a balking mule. Besides, those old stairs did creak, on the fourth step and the tenth, in an eerie echo that missed a beat.

Jaya put down the duster that was giving a 'sweep-off-the-mess' cleansing to the counter-top and gave her attention to more important things. First a reassuring hug, next a lift over the pesky step. Now the tickle as they went up five more, accompanied by satisfied wriggling and giggling from Nanni. Last, another lift and a kiss as she was hoisted onto the eleventh step.

The inevitable accepted, her back quickly rounded the landing; her hand polishing the handrails as she climbed.

Jaya was as scrubbed up and ready to go as any surgeon on ‘Scrubs’; but only a sink full of dishes lay in wait of her skills. Mothers though, had to contend with factors that pampered surgeons on TV sitcoms never did, one being the-voice-from-above. Usually a ploy to either waste time or just to gain attention, today there was a note of desperation in it. She wiped off the suds and dashed up the stairs, two to a stride.

“Mommmmmmmmeeeeeeeeeee!”

Impatience, fear, anguish, all nicely blended in that strident call for help. The bedroom door was wide open, a little figure dancing on the bed in frenzy so close to a crying jag that she skidded in without stopping.

Nanni was clad only in pyjama top, the bottom discarded mid-way between bath and bed. Her beloved stuffed bunny was askew by the crumpled heap.

“What’s wrong, darling?”

An indignant hiccup and a half-sob was the only answer to the inane query.

Jaya sat down upon the bed and patted the space next to her; she had her arms full of a sobbing child in the next instant.

A rambling tale of noises emerged; there were rustling noises - maybe a whisper or two - and certainly some cowardice on Rinku's part.

She soothed and murmured; she promised and cajoled. A guarded compromise having been established, Jaya managed to get the pyjama bottoms smoothed out and over plump waving legs. The comforter was drawn back; little persuasion was required for the now-angelic figure to dive in and be tucked up with a kiss.

Jaya then pretended to be a magician as exaggerated sweeping motions restored a frightened Rinku to his ‘mommy’; switching off all but the bedside reading light. All creatures of the night were solemnly banished with a ‘Rimmy-roo-ri-ra’ incantation as the drapes were swished open and shut the three times demanded by the ritual.

All was satisfactory, the lids were half-closed and one little hand drew Rinku closer with a small sigh of contentment. A thought floated into her mind. I might even get out of reading her to sleep today.

Brown eyes opened wide and turned full upon her mother like nougat searchlights, “Read me a story, Mommy.”

Jaya relegated thoughts of waiting chores to the stock-pile of things-that-must-wait-while-my-child-needs-me.

“Which one will you have, dear? The girl who could not be woken up for a hundred years? Or the story of the girl who lost her slipper? ” Nanni had a way of re-naming all-time favourites according to how they impacted upon her mind.

“No!” was the firm answer.

“I want to listen to that one - the girl who found a Wolf in the Bed.” An imperious finger pointed at the familiar picture of a caped and hooded figure in red.

So, Nanni settled down to her bed-time story, blissfully unaware of the contradiction in being fond of this gory bed-time tale; when just a few minutes ago the rustling of a discarded candy-wrapper had given her hysterical notions of Monsters under the Bed.

Red Riding Hood it was.

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"That was nice." A drowsy voice provided the ultimate accolade.

Nima reached out to turn off the light. Mission accomplished

"But, you said she made up her own tales - where was that one?"

Memory proved superior to the call of Morpheus, the God of Slumber.

"I'll tell you about that tomorrow - how her bunny Rinku and she had adventures."

"Like Ribbons, when he saved me from The Lurking Snark."

"The Lur Kingsnark? What's that?"

"No, no - The Lurking Snark. I'll tell you about that tomorrow." Young minds tend to imitate solutions, but the putting-off-till-tomorrow tactic suited Nima just fine.

"That's a date. Good night darling."

"Good night, Nima."

Tired eyelids finally fluttered closed over Siya's eyes.

The story of the Lurking Snark as she told it to Nima resulted in a poem in its honour. Siya liked it so much that it became almost as much of a ritual as the pre-bedtime prayer. It was later written out in bright maker-pen colours and decorated by Siya herself. It is taped to her cupboard to this day. The change of name to 'Teddy' was Nima's idea, as she explained to Siya, any child who read it could understand who the hero was with that name. Ribbons too requested anonymity, he shrank from the idea of being unmasked.

The Lurking Snark
Have you beheld the Lurking Snark?
Baleful eyes that glow in the dark,
Look! Light gleams in the corner there,
D'you think it is his hidden lair?

After Mommy’s tucked you in at night,
has kissed you and turned off the light -
then a crunch or slither you’ll hear -
sure sign that he is somewhere near.

He likes dark cupboards; he will hide
somewhere amongst clutter inside.
That pile of vests - it just tipped over
in his scrambles, he’s a rover.

Under the bed's a favourite too,
noisily your slippers he’ll chew,
tear strips off sheets that might hang down -
drool on the hem of your nightgown.

Protruding toes are not quite safe,
pull up those covers, though they chafe.
That brute can't be seen by others,
certainly not sneering brothers.

One good thing - he’s scared of Teddy,
snuggled beside me, all ready.
When that Snark will expect it least,
Teddy’ll leap down and fight that Beast.

When morning comes - it always does,
I know there will be a big fuss,
to Mommy I’ll have to confess.
How did my room become this mess?

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Jaya screwed the cap back on the water bottle, placing it in the small wire basket. It was held upright by the fact that the basket was a small one; it sat next to a small lunch box, topped with a folded napkin.

"Nanni, are you ready? The bus will be here any minute."

A smiling face popped into the kitchen, and ready hands picked up the basket, one hnad freed itself to blow a flying kiss back to her mother and wave.

"Bye sweetheart. Wait for the bus to stop completely before climbing ... on"

The last word was said to thin air, as eager feet clattered down the steps, the bus stopped right outside their gate and Jaya could see it from the living room or dining room windows with ease. She did go out on the landing though, she liked her daughter to see her if she turned.

She hardly ever did, school was still a novel and exciting affair to the four-year old, more like a play time. They were in what was called Lower Kindergarten, no structured teaching, just two hours of learning to interact with other children, paint, sing, or play in groups.

They had to eat by themselves too, under the supervision of adults, the food was instructed to be finger friendly and not sticky or messy. Today she had sent her two steamed savoury rice cakes and a cup of diced apples and pears. The goal was to teach them to eat without fussing.

It gave all of them two hours of 'free' time too, she could get to work herself, the maid had already come in and would keep an eye on Ravi whist she did the chores. His milk was kept ready to be warmed in a water bath, he liked it luke-warm anyway; or rather at body temperature, she reminded herself.

Her workplace was just five minutes walk from home, she could even dash back in the lunch hour if required, not that she did that often. It was the comfort of knowing she could, if she wanted to. She had a pretty understanding boss too, as long as she stayed back whenever required he was fine with her coming late or going early on days when work was light.

Hamsa, the maid looked up, her dark face glowing with the exertion of swabbing the floors by hand, she signaled an 'All's OK' by gesturing with one palm. Jaya picked up her briefcase, gave a last glance at the placidly sleeping infant and quietly let herself out. Hamsa was a god-send, amiable and willing. She adored the children too and was quite amenable to the long hours because she too sent her kids to school, paid for bu Jaya. In the time taken for their academic activities, she did the chores for Jaya. She was paid enough to allow her to save money even after handing a daily allowance over to her drunkard husband. Food was given to her when there and she could even carry some home on days when there was more . She thanked God for showing her such a 'good' house, her contemporaries in the other dwellings slaved over the same chores for a pittance and had to run from one house to another to make enough money.

Jaya was back early, her boss was out of town and there was little or no point in standing guard over an empty citadel. She hadn't had much to do except doodle on completed files and she had decided to call it a day after answering five calls for her counterpart who was present only in spirit, only a large bag dangling from her chair declaring official attendance . She was glad, it was not yet time for her daughter to be back from school, she could be home to greet her for once.

She looked for her son and saw him perched at the window bars, no literally perched on the bars. He was clinging to them like a monkey. One questioning eyebrow was lifted at Hamsa, she was seated on the wide divan under that window, shelling some peas with alacrity.

"Let him be, Amma. He only cries if you try to take him down. He likes to look at people passing below and the scooters or cows excite him like anything, he'll start jumping up and down there."

"But he might fall, Hamsa."

"Not he, if he gets tired he turns his head to see if I'm there and makes noises to tell me he's ready to come down. If I'm not looking, he'll screech like a railway engine coming through a tunnel to attract my attention."

"But, he still might fall."

"One foot down to this soft mattress, it's safe, Amma. If you are so anxious, wait for your daughter's bus right here, at this window. You can keep one hand near him. Don't hold him though, he hates that."

Jaya agreed to the compromise solution, she knew her ten-month old son had a mind of his own and no hesitation in making his preferences known. Her hovering hand was never needed though, not even when the little bottom waggled up and down in delight as a dog went by.

"Do you know he has begun talking, Amma?"

"Really, what did he say? Was it Ma? Or was it Dada? Why haven't you told me beofre?" Jaya was excited, she had been expecting her son's first word to be formed for some days now.

"Well, it's not really a word, Amma. Unless he is speaking that Unglees." Hamsa did not think much of babies who spoke English.

"So, what did he say?" Jaya was curious, what was this non-word her son had deigned to convey.

"He says, 'Dooo', Amma. 'Do-oo', "here Hamsa drew out the vowel sound in exaggeration sounding like a demented pigeon.

Ravi looked around in surprise and echoed the sound, delighted someone spoke his language.

"Whatever could he mean? Has he been looking at a dog or something? Is that a special word he made up?"

"Yesterday, just after he jumped up and down saying it, little Amma came home, but she had seen nothing unusual on the street. No dog, no scooter, not even a cow. Who understands babies?" Hamsa's shoulders shrugged to deny any such knowledge on her part.

Just then Ravi's body stiffened and his attention became fixed on something, then his bottom started jerking up and down as his knees bent and straightened. He shouted out the word in a crescendo of excitement, yet nothing was pasing in the street below.

"Doo! Do-oo! Do-Ooo!"

Jaya was getting frustrated, her son was obviously doing it at random, there was no point in lauding it as speaking. It was a relief to see her daughter's school bus drawing up before the house, at least one purpose had been served by coming early. She thrust out an arm and waved.

"Be careful, Nandoo. Cross safely darling." The township road had little non-residential traffic, but a mother's heart is always fearful.

An excited face was upturned and brightened to see all three at the living room window. The bus conductor checked to see the road was clear before letting go of her hand and waited to see she crossed before he signalled for the bus to lumber another hundred yards for its next stop.

Nandini raced into the house and clasped her arms tightly around her kneeling mother. It was such a pleasant surprise to find her there.

Ravi made his get-me-down noise, just as Hamsa predicted, and he was set down on the floor. He crawled in his rapid fashion to his sister and pulled himself up by clutching the hem of her skirt. Her arms were extended to help him and she squatted to bring her face level with his. She made a fake grimace and shook her head to set her hair waving and bouncing. He laughed and clapped his hands. She rubbed her nose against his and they both laughed at that.

A light went on in Jaya's brain as she saw the inter-play. It was now obvious to her why her son clung to those bars every day, she even knew what he was trying to say.

Nandini patted Ravi on the head and went to lift her bag and basket from where she had dumped them, near the door. Hamsa took them from her hand. So she took off her shoes and socks and went to wash her hands.

Jaya turned to Hamsa, 'just call little Amma by her name, Hamsa."

Hamsa heistated, she rarely did that, only if Nandini failed to respond to the respectful title did she resort to that.

Jaya repeated the instruction, with soft insistence, "just do it."

"Nandoo," she called.

Two faces swung to her from opposite directions, then the babyish voice endorsed the call, 'Doo."

"He's been calling out his sister all the time. It's all he can say, 'Doo'. He waits for her in that window, I think he can hear the bus much before we see it and he calls out to her." Jaya's eyes were misting over, her son's first words were neither a call to his mother nor to his father, but to a beloved sister.

Nandini was thrilled by the idea, "he called out to me?"

"Not only that, the very first word he has bothered to say is your name. See how much he loves you? He clings like a monkey to its mother's belly on those bars every day, just to be the first to greet you."

She hugged Nandini close to her and saw her son speed-crawling towards them, anxious to be a part of the action.

Predictably, he was saying, "Doo."

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Nandy walked into the room just as Jaya was finishing the story, "Doo Story, Ma?"

"Do you know that story, Mommy?"

Siya was so glad to see her mother walk in free and alone, she almost missed the point that her mother recognised the story.

Nandy caught her mother's warning glance and correctly interpreted it to mean Siya had not yet discovered who the children in the story were. Nima usually had a reason for doing things and Siya had become a lot more tractable over the apst few days of story telling, so she just let her mother take the lead in explaining that away.

"Mommy also heard the story from me, so she's bound to know it." Nima was proud that Siya hadn't yet made her tell untruths in this devious game of getting her to understand sisterhood and sibling relationships.


"When did you find the time to tell mommy the story? She's been busy with Baby." It was almost an accusation, Mommy had been sitting and listening to stories in her free time, time she could have spent with Siya.

That drew laughs from both the adults, and Nandy hastened to retrieve her character.

"It was along time ago, when I was a little girl, a bit older than you though. We used to have frequent power outages and there was nothing else to do but listen to stories."

Siya tried to imagine her mother as any size of child, a 'little bigger' or even a lot bigger. It seemed impossible, Mommy could never have been that small. She pounced on the other thing that puzzled her, the talk of a power outage, "what do you mean power outage?"

"Well, we lived in a place that was more like a village, the power was irregular and went 'out' at least three or four times a day. Mostly in the late evenings or early mornings. There's limit to how much candlelight can help, one can't do more than read a few pages of anything that way. The radio would be off, the TV would be off, it would be hot and the open windows invited bugs to the candles. It was best to just fan oneself in the dark with a magazine and let Nima tell a story."

"What is a village?"

Nandy looked helplessly at her mother, the question was so basic she did not know where to start. Nima gestured for her to try, pointing to the baby monitor to indicate she'd take care of Ved if he awoke.

So Nandy tried to take Siya on a virtual trip back in time, to show her a part of India she hadn't even heard of before.

"Villages are simple places where the houses may be made of material like mud and straw."

"Like the three Pigs?"
"Yes, just like in the three piggies story. They know how to build them better than the piggies but they are still not as good as brick houses."

"Why do they do that?"

"People are not so well off though and live by growing their own vegetables and keeping a hen or two, selling the extra vegetables and eggs."

"Don't they work at all?"

"They do, but they work in the large farms for pay, tending their won plots after or before work."

"It is a hard life and even something as simple as water, the water you think is limitless, is scarce."

"No water? Really?"

"Water would be from a well or sometimes a hand-pump installed by the local authority. There is no running water in most houses and they depend on stored water. They go down to the river to bathe or sometimes build a local 'tank' for that purpose, fed by rainwater. Luckily for that region, it rains ten months in the year."

"Boy, they must just live in raincoats then."

"A plastic bag cut up one side would cover their head, or an end of the head-cloth will be all they have. They either shelter until the rain stops, or work through it. They cannot afford not to work even one day."

"Let me show you Gowramma's house," Nandy stopped to marshal her thoughts and Siya jumped up to come and lean against her side, waiting for the photo album to make an appearance.

"Show me the photos, Mommy."

"I have very few of those, but I'll dig them out, right new I'll show you in words. She lived in the village and came to our house to help Nima with the chores, we had a huge house by any standards, it was palatial by village reckoning. She lived in the village proper with her family and animals."

"Did you ever visit her there, did you see the animals?"

"It wasn't a zoo or anything, darling. Animals wander all over the place in India, especially in hamlets like that. Cows and dogs out on the fields, no fences prevent them wandering onto the road. Pigs root in ditches and wallow in the mudholes. Buffaloes laze at the lakeside, chewing on the ware lilies. Chicken like the backyards where rubbish breeds worms. The bordering jungle growth has peacocks and cuckoos, the contrasting cries can be heard every morning."

Siya's eyes were large enough to qualify as pop-eyed and she was rapt in the description, so Nandy launched into the story of Gowramma's life.

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Gowramma wanted to draw the cover over her shoulders and go back to sleep, but she knew the increasing chill meant morning was here. It would be the dew that blanketed the place like a mist, it made mornings wet and cold. In the distance she heard the cock crowing, the first red rays of the sun must have peeped through a cloud.

She needed to go relieve herself too, just getting up and making her way to the outhouse involved a journey through the cowshed and the yard, then back again with bucket and lota both ways, no going back to bed after that. She should be glad her husband had had the cesspit dug and the tin frame put up, it was find a convenient bush before that for any such needs. Not only find that bush, but one that hadn't been found too often either, one had to be careful where one stepped.

It would be time for chores in a few minutes, might as well get up now and get on with it. She got up from the mud floor where her rush mat had been laid out, it had just a thin folded sheet as bed material, that and her cover were folded in a trice, the mat rolled tight and everything neatly stacked against the wall. Her husband snored on the rope cot against the wall, he was the only one to get that elevated position, his due as the man of the house. Thankfully scorpions and snakes were not frequent, but even a low cot ensured the likelihood of a bite was less. Traditional lore decreed his life was the most precious and most houses had no room for more cots.

She drew out a thick cover of old saris stitched together over rents and tears, from the overhanging rafter. It made a good cover against chill, and draped over the tin structure's side, warned there was an occupant within, for the door had no lock. She filled the little tin bucket with water from a large trough at the back door and picked up the lota that stood beside it, the water was icy-cold, she had goose-pimples from just filling the bucket, it would be agony to use it for washing.

I have Amma to thank for making my husband dig that pit, and for insisting some precious water be used to keep the place clean. Even that 'worm medicine' she gave all the children. They have quite lost heir pale faces and pot bellies now.

On her way back, Gowramma plucked off a stick from the an overhanging branch of the neem tree, stripped it of leaves and began chewing on it, it would serve as both toothbrush and mouth freshener. It had a faintly bitter taste but was good for the health.

She went into the cowshed were the cows were already moving around and lowing softly, they nudged her with their big heads as though to ask what took her so long. She patted their sides and placed fresh hay in their feed troughs, fresh water would be brought in later by one of her sons.
She led out Laxmi, the favourite, she gave the most milk and was the most placid, best to start the morning well. Kamala was a kicker and moody, some days her milk would be bearely three-quarters of a bucket.

She drew out a half bucket of the old water and washed the udders, squatting down at the side on her heels, with a bucket clasped between her knees. She washed her hands and rubbed them together to warm them, cows do not like cold hands laid upon their most tender parts. Her nimble fingers were soon making rhythmic motions that sent jets of white milk frothing into the ready receptacle. Laxmi gave nearly two buckets today, good. She finished her tasks in the dairy by cleaning out the stalls, being sure to collect the cow-patties, the precious fuel source in a basket. She would take care of that later in the day. Having led the cows back into the clean stal, she washed her hands in the remnants of water and upended the bucket in a corner.

She wiped down her hands on a corner of her sari, and hefted two of the buckets; she would make a second trip for the others - she must hurry, there was so much work still to be done. As she hurried back she looked in the pen where the chicken roosted at night, there were four of five eggs visible in there, some more would be hidden in wisps of straw and dark broody corners, she'd send Venu in to get them.

She went into the house ducking her head in the low doorway, traditionally the roofs and doors wer low to induce a humble attitude in the dwellers, or so folklore said. Gowramma thought it was just one more way of squeezing the most worth out of one rupee of building material, when one rarely was at home except to sleep or eat, why have tall rooms?

She shook her daughter awake and asked her to wake the elder two children, fold their bedclothes, roll the mats and put them away. She would need the floor space for other things soon, the two little ones were almost under their father's rope cot, they could be left there.

She then crouched at the clay contraption in one corner of the one-roomed structure. It was little more than a channel for ashes and a holder of cow-chips and twigs. She tuned over the warm embers with a pair of tongs and blew them to red life with a reed pipe, coughing a little as the smoke curled back in her face. She deftly added in twigs and cow-chips, placing them in a tight spiral, lifting a large branch or patty that wasn't allowing air to circulate. When blue flame was licking at the edges, she placed a large aluminium pot on the flames, it already had some water in it.

She took a double handful of lentils from a jar, spread it thinly over a plate to check for worms or dirt, and tipped it into the water.

"Kumuda, go and pluck fresh greens from the backyard and get in some potatoes and onions too. Get Venu to go and find the eggs, give him the small rush basket to get them. Ask Kanna to see if the tomato plant has any tomatoes, I need just one, he can collect the others on the selling tray.

Kumuda got her brothers doing their tasks by dint of a smart blow across the back of their heads, she never put up with their whining like her mother did. Boys, or girls, if everybody, worked they ate faster and better. She reached for the wire basket hung across a rafter and scrabbled in it for thee fat potatoes and two round white onions, that should be enough, she decided.

The greens were abundant, they took little growing, thank God. Just a scattering of seeds and the run-off of the water used to wash hands at the back door. She uprooted them with gentle care, making sure the roots came out intact, even the stem was edible, just root tips needing to be cut off. She slapped the bunches against her leg, to shake off the clinging dirt and washed the rest off with a couple of sprinkles of water and a damp cloth. Water was precious.

As she brought them in, one hand bunched all the roots together and sliced off the root tips with a sickle, one deft push sloughed that onto the floor, then she roughly chopped up the rest in a trice. The potatoes were given the same lick and promise washing, diced into large chunks, the onions ruthlessly beheaded and tailed, stripped of a papery outer layer and quartered before their pungency could induce tears. She showed the fruits of her labour to her mother and upended the whole into the pot at her approving nod.

Venu and Kanna came in just then, the cumulative bounty was seven eggs and a tray full of tomatoes. They gave her looks of resentment meant to thwart any further chores, but she overrode the message.

"Venu, Kanna, did you let the chicken out to roam? And the cows, are they in the grass in that empty plot?" She raised her voice so her mother knew she was sending the boys off to do this, they would be cowed by the assumption that their mother approved. Actually she knew her mother was too busy to pay attention to the exact command, she just needed to know Kumuda was taking care of the needed tasks. Free fodder was for the first arrivals, one could not afford to let some other animals be grazing there first. She shrugged off their glares and they went off again.

She selected one misshapen tomato for the pot, it was sure to remain rejected by any potential buyer although its taste was like its rounder fellows. She quartered it and pulled out a large muthuga leaf on which to place it ready, it would be added just five minutes before serving, to add tang and colour to the lentil stew. She had plucked a couple of stalks of bay leaves, she stripped one of the fresh leaves and added it to the cut tomato, the two would go in together.

Her mother had been busy, a small vessel at the back of the fire had heated a mixture of milk and water to which she had added tea leaves, the caramel mix was climbing up the sides in a setting mass of bubbles. Gowramma wrapped a cloth around her hand, with a quick movement the pot was off the heat. There was no strainer, the brew settled and was decanted into steel tumblers, one took the odd tea leaf in the sip between barely parted lips, caught it on the tip of one's tongue and spat it out. Or let the brew sit to cool, blew off the skin and drank it after the leaves had settled to the bottom.

Gowramma took another look at the pot, nodded and pushed it to the back, where it would simmer over slow heat for a while, the front now go another vessel, this time with rice tipped in it. She gestured at her daughter to wake the younger ones, and take them out for their morning ablutions. They got the left over milk-water mix, without the tea, it was ready for them in two larger tumbler. One brimming tumbler contained pure milk, it would be used for her husband's coffee, if was in a good mood he would offer her a sip or two. She didn't care, the leaf was enough for her hunger pangs.

At this she reached for the cloth bag hanging at her waist, it contained betel leaves, lime, betelnut and a mix of other spices that were powdered, all in neat little pockets. She deftly made a leaf into a folded triangle with one smear of lime and a spoonful of the mix within. She placed this in her cheek, where it would release a juice as she went about her work. She could talk around it, even eat, if luck gave her something to eat. The constant use of this had made the inside of her cheek on that side resemble leather, stiff and thick. She could not see what there was to fuss about, her mother had done it, and her mother before her. Women had to have something to help them through the hard day.

Her husband got up and stretched, one hand at his head and one at his groin, both scratching away. He must have got lice again, he scratches so much, I will ask Amma for more of the lotion she gave last time - or else we'll all be scratching away out time.

"Is my coffee ready, woman? I hope you made sure there's enough milk?"

He never let's me forget the one time there was not enough milk, that irritable cow, Kamala, had kicked over Laxmi's yield, and was dry herself at that time.

"Just wash your face and come in, I'll have it piping hot by then." She tipped the reserved milk and coffee brew into a small pot which she moved to the front of the fire, blowing at the coals through the bamboo tube to get more vigorous flames.

He came back and half-reclined on the bed, sipping his coffee in noisy slurps. There were no adverse comments, sometimes it would escalate to a sideswipe or blow if the brew was not to his taste. Today there was only the noise of appreciation unknown in polite circles, it meant all was OK with her world. He would go off after his coffee and put in an hour or so on the home field, before coming home for a wash and food. They did not have a daily bath, only when water permitted, sometimes it might be a week between baths. Hands and feet, face and neck, these got a wash with water and towel. Clothes too were worn until visible soiled or offensive to the nose.

The food was ready by the time he came in, drawing on a simple shirt like garment and tying his lungi in place, he placed a clean towel on his shoulder, it would serve to wipe sweat from his brow, or as headrest for loads, or as protection against the sun, draped across his head in the afternoon, even a pillow if he had time for a nap. It all depended on what work he was able to get on the landlord's farm.

She had the round leaf plates ready, made by pinning together muthuga leaves with reed pins, cheap and they went into compost later. She heaped rice and lentil stew on his plate and sat before him, ready to serve him water or more food.

All the members had the meal before leaving the home, for work or school, they carried no food to those places, they would not eat again until the night meal. Her husband ate first, then the children; she ate whatever, if anything, was left in the pots. She was lucky that she worked in the 'big house', she got food and tea there. Many others did not, the women were always pale and weak, dying in childbirth. The man married again, so the children were looked after, then that wife grew pale and weak. So on until some men had wives younger than an eldest offspring.

All that remained now was some watery lentil gravy, she left it on the embers, the heat would reduce it to a roasted thick paste, she would have it with rice for the night. Right now she would have to hurry to reach the big house on time. She picked up one can of milk and six eggs, the seventh she'd use to thicken the night meal's gravy. She sold the items at the big house, a good supplementation of income, with little effort.

"Kumuda, are you ready for school? Make sure your brothers go to school, they have skipped two days by telling me they got stomach ache."

Kumuda grimaced, she would have to detour to make sure they went to the boy's section, she never understood why her mother allowed them to wheedle and excuse their way out of attending school. She herself would have cracked a whip to ensure they went. In fact she did harangue them all the way and sped them on the way with threats to thrash them if they cut a class again. It would work for a week or so then inherent laziness coupled with moderate understanding would made them repeat the offence.

Gowramm went out by way of the back garden and added some greens and tomatoes to her wicker basket, Amma always bought the fresh vegetables too. She saw that the lower branches had plenty of ripe fruit that would have rotted away if unpicked, her sons had skimped on that job too, she could rely only on her daughter to get any work done. It was the women who ran the house, but men who made the rules and ran the world.

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"Mommy, she did all that work before coming forwork? And without a stove? Without a fridge?" Siya had been paying close attention and comparing the routine to what she knew.

"Yes, dear, without a grumble too. It was life as she knew it and she was prepared to accept it as her lot. She was so grateful for the little luxuries she got, she was allowed to bathe in our house if she wanted. Whatever we kids got as treats, cookies, cake, some was always sent to her children too. Lots of time we had food in out fridge that she was glad to take home and eat. She got hand-me-downs that were in excellent shape, only we had outgrown them. She even got bangles, glass ones, which she loved to wear on her arms."

"And they all slept on the floor, Mommy? No beds?"

"Not even a bedroom dear, imagine you have a room all to yourself, those children ate, lived, slept all in one single room. Aren't you lucky?"

Siya thought it over and decided she was very lucky, indeed. "Mommy, why don't you and Daddy have a room each? Nima has one, I have one, only you two share."

Nandy heard a snort from behind her, she knew her mother was sniggering in the background.

"It's this way dear, Papa also grew up in a small house and he feels we should not waste space just because we have it. This way we have spare bedrooms for visitors like Pallu Auntie or Nima. I am perfectly OK sharing it with Papa, he's home only for the night and weekends anyway."

Nandy congratulated herself on a providential escape from an awkward situation. If only Siya did not follow the topic with Sid before she a chance to tell him she had given him a parsimonious streak quite alien to his nature. She decided to make a preemptive strike of her won, "Even Baby Ved will move out his own room soon, as soon as he stops needing to be fed at night."

Siya was happy to hear that, Ved was growing up sometime soon then, he wouldn't remain a baby forever.

She gave her mother a brilliant smile, a rare sight these days.

"Mommy, can we go to India sometime and see that village?"

"I don't see why not, maybe next year we can all go over to India. Nima will show us Mumbai, Dadu and Dadi will show us Ahmedabad and I will take you all to Gottigere."

"Nima is from Mumbai? That's where Jaya stays - can we go visit her?"

Nima looked thoughtful but answered, "We could go by the house where she used to live, but she doesn't stay there any more."

"Why where did she go?"

"She had to go away, but I think I can find her for you. She might be changed you know, would you still like to meet her?"

"Of course, I'd like that. Thanks Nima."

Siya skipped out, happy and contented for once. Nandy turned to her mother, "What tangled web are you weaving mother? Isn't your deceit giving her false beliefs?"

"Nandy, these stories are mine, if I choose to hide my identity, I shall. Siya is learning sibling relationships through them, not old fogey Grandma tales. I'll tackle the problem when it cannot be put off."

"What a topsy-turvy philosophy Ma, Why tackle today what you can put off till tomorrow?"

Nima smiled and retorted, "Isn't there an Americanism to that effect - if it ain't broke, why fix it?"

Nandy gave a rueful smile, why indeed.

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Some more Gottigere background, might or might not be used:

The name itself is quaint, and to those who know the local language, talks of a small gathering of dwellings, probably around a water body like a lake.

It is a part of one the most bustling metropolitan cities in India, one that is home to a large proportions of India's Electronics and Software giants. It also has one of the largest concentration of BPO's - leading to the coining of a term 'being Bangalored', akin to being 'shanghaied', to describe losing jobs to outsourcing. Of course, if you are being politically correct it would be preferable to call it Benagluru, a name change in deference to local pronunciation.

When Nanni and Ravi were growing up, it was still the anglicized Bangalore! And this sleepy little outskirt-pocket was more a village, it had neither pretensions to cityhood, nor any comprehension of it.

If we just hover on the southernmost edge of the city and follow Bannerghatta Road down for another 8 kilometers, blissfully escaping the bumping and juddering otherwise inevitable on that potholed surface, why, there it is. Gottigere. In all its bucolic glory, and much it cares that you don't think highly of it.

The houses stand well back from the road, although plots for future dwellings are marked out, there are only six houses visible on the entire left side of the road past this particular milestone. One of those large houses belongs to Ravi and Nanni's mother, it is overlarge for just three people, having six bedrooms. They love having so much room, not only do they have a bedroom each - in a country where children can share rooms or even parental bedrooms until they reach puberty, that's luxury - they also have a playroom and a study room. There's a large terrace with a swinging seat, wide enough to sleep on. There's another balcony to one of the bedrooms and a cute little overhang from the other that opens over the double height living room.

There is enough greenery around for the locals to graze their animals there. Ravi used to give his lunch away to one motherless shepherd boy until Ravi's mother started giving him an extra parcel for that boy. He still stops to have a word or two with that boy every day, pleased that he doesn't any longer have to jump into ditches to prevent his mother seeing his giving away of the food. He has also 'adopted' an old cow, she is past the ge of milk production, but it is a 'free range life' for her rather than the abattoir - her owner will just set her free, in this land where she is venerated. He buys day-old stale buns from the baker at half-price and feeds them to her.

As he and Nanni take the short cut across the fields, he waves to the milkman backing his horse and cart into one of the houses. Karia is the village strongman, bronzed muscles ripple on his arms as he wrestles down the heavy milk cans, his thick moustache waggles with the snort of effort he makes. Yet, a smile and wave is his response to the friendly greeting. Once bitterly opposed to Ravi's liberal views, the boy's helpful nature and determined friendly attitude has won him over.

Gowramma, the housemaid is just coming down the path, she comes everyday to help keep that gargantuan house in order, She calls out to them that the bus is just turning into the village, they should run for the stop. Their arrival is well timed however, trust Nanni for that. She knows her brother's perambulations and has worked out the trip to perfection. The large yellow bus grumbles to a stop, it belches smoke from its tail pipe and the radiator blows a little cloud of steam, much as a corpulent traveller might stop to puff and mop sweat from his brow. The two hop on with practised ease, manouvering their huge schoolbags through the narrow entryway with the help of the 'conductor'. There are no tickets or fees, the man is there just to see that the children get on and off safely. He gives both their heads a little pat and greets them by name, they respectfully intone a greeting. Ravi runs to the back of the bus where his friends make eager room for him and is soon engrossed in exchange of happenings, momentous ones, since they last met, oh, quite sixteen hours ago! Nanni makes her sedate way to the third row to sit beside her best friend and soon the two heads are so close they seem to be one.

As the bus lumbers off with a groan and another protesting puff of black exhaust fumes, one begins to see the shops on either side open up. People do not come out and shop until they have finished morning chores, so shops oopen late, close for a lengthy siesta, and close by dinner time at night. Why remain open when the customers are sleeping or busy with home? This way they too can do their chores and run their establishments. The shutters go up with a cheery rattle, the counters are pulled forward, the front is swept with a broom and the dust 'settled' be a deft sprinkling from a mug of water. It is an art to see how the water sprays in graceful arcs that wets every inch of the mud strip that serves as 'pavement' to the road.

People come by with laden baskets now, greens that are still verdant, plump squashes, tender cucumbers, radiant tomatoes, carrots that seem to be advertisements for healthy eyes. The produce is all locally grown and although smaller than store-bought, it is much tastier and fresher. The housewives bend and poke and prod with assumed disdain, they scorn the produce. The vendors gesticulate and claim they have just plucked the items an hour ago. Everybody knows everybody else and the purchasing and selling is interspersed with inquiries over the family and how is the health of this aunt or the welfare of that nephew in the next town. Both settle down to a prolonged ritual of haggling over the price and each is satisfied with the final result.

Cows roam the area with impunity, some even snatching some greens or a cabbage from the gunny sack placed behind the improvised 'stalls'. A pat on the back to move would be the maximum deterrent they get, most would fold their hand together in veneration, for these are holy animals. Dogs are not so lucky, except for a few adopted ones, most strays are pelted with stones and driven away, they are scrawny, flea-bitten, mangy and ridden with sores and wounds. Yet, some are fortunate to encounter Ravi, he is sure to have his biscuits stuffed in his pocket just for them. His mother wonders how such a scrawny kid devours so many biscuits.

That side of the road is the main village, sometimes when the power fails at night, only the four houses can be seen lit up against the pitch black of the rest. They have alternative stored power with battery banks sufficient for lights and fans in all rooms, the fridge and one power outlet, enough for eight hours of outage. It hasn't yet been tested because the power is usually back in an hour or two, or they congregate in one room to save the battery. But such outages are common in this part of the city.

Water too is a big problem, the lake is too polluted too be a source in these days, though it might have once been the main water source. The water supply from the municipality comes once in two days for a couple of hours, it comes with enough force to suffice if all had the large storage tanks of the bungalows. But, in summer, even that would fail, if they did not also have bore wells as a back-up. The bore-well has such sweet tasting water that many people come to ask if they can take their supply of drinking water from there, there's always a steady stream of young women balancing the pot-bellied water pots of gleaming steel or copper, or even brass. They sway as they snuggle one at the hip and two on their heads, long plaits swinging behind in elephantine grace. Nary a drop is spilled as they make their seductive way across the village, one end of the sari gripped between gleaming white teeth, to veil their faces from covetous glance.

Although most houses in the village are small, there is room for a cow or buffalo, or at least a goat. Chicken run free by day and are cooped only at night, they are pretty territorial and rarely wander far from their domain. The animals are tended for the prized possessions they are, a source of renewing income. When beyond the 'producing' age, all, except the cow, find their way to the slaughterhouse. The villagers are meat eaters if they can afford it, cost generally keeps their diet vegetarian. Variety is never a problem, though.

Fish leap in liver arcs from the lake surface, the villagers supplement their meager diet with those. Unable to fish by usual methods by the thick overgrowth of water hyacinth on the surface, they plunge in bodily and use deft hands to make the prized catch. These are not of much market value, being of a oily variety not edible to the 'usuals' who throng a fish market, yet they are a good source of protein, free, and all for a romp in the water.

They know how to use the leaves of many trees for food too, the drumstick-tree, the giant colocasia leaves, the banana stem, which is uprooted after the tree bears fruit, nothing is wasted. Gowramma often brings these strange curries for the children - their mother just insists that it be totally vegetarian. Ravi's favourite is banana flower fritters with sour yoghurt dip. Nanni loves the Ragi balls
a steamed preparation of flour from a staple grain that is eaten mainly in hamlets and villages, cheap, nutritious and easy to prepare
that accompany the thick mixed green gravy that is so disgusting to look at and so sweet-sour delicious as it slides down the throat.

See, here's a mosque, where the muzzein is just giving the call to the prayer, there are five such calls to the faithful in a day. The green domes and golden spires are distinctive features that call attention to the structure. The patron saint of that place has a small memorial block raised over his 'kabr' or grave, but that is closer to the road. In fact the road narrows at that point because it cannot be widened to desecrate that revered spot. People come from afar to spread glittering veils and shrouds and even woven floral blankets over it - offerings that accompany their prayers for relief and blessings. The strange thing is that people of all faith do this in perfect harmony, there's no restriction of his benediction to any one community.

There are three major Hindu shrines around the area, one to Lord Shiva
One of the original triumvirate of Gods, the Holy Trinity, embodying the Destroyer
, one to Hanuman
another of the complex Hindu deities both a supreme devotee of Lord Ram and a God in his own right
, one to the Ganesha
The Elephant-headed Lord of Wisdom
. The villagers take turns visiting these three, Mondays for the first, Tuesdays and Saturdays for the second, Tuesdays again for the third, but he would be sought out before any new beginning - for he is reputed to have the power to remove all obstacles. It is not hard to figure out where each of these is situated, just watch for a conglomeration of flower sellers, coconut vendors, stalls with magnetic stickers and photo frames and statuettes in the appropriate molds, a procession of demure sari-clad ladies with trays and baskets of fruits and other traditional offerings, the sonorous sound of pealing bells and harmonious chants. There, an arch that is decorated in bright colours and designs of lotus leaves and flowers, the many-storied 'mantap
' The elaborate headpiece of a temple, tapering layer by layer and decorated with statuettes in bas-relief
rises tall, surmounted by a flagpole and fluttering saffron flag.

Enterprising souls would have set up stalls where the unprepared can purchase trays with all the required offerings - vermilion, turmeric, camphor, betel-nut leaves and betel nuts, incense sticks, fruits and/or a coconut. You have to return the empty tray on your way out, to ensure which they offer to look after your foot wear, since you have to go in barefoot.

But that's not all, all along both sides of the road are bangle sellers and balloon vendors, roasted corn is being turned over glowing coals on that cart there, another sells plump gauvas, some cut to show their startling pink inside. The children clamour for these treats. Of course they will get 'prasad
' food offered to the deity and hence blessed, redistributed to the devotees
at specific times in the temple, but these too ensure their willing attendance. Ravi is an expert at making his face look pathetic and wan, he always gets an extra-large helping of the prasad. Nanni makes a small prim cup of her hand and accepts whatever she gets, she takes a pinch for the blessing and passes the rest over to her younger brother, she knows he loves the glutinous banana-laden concoction usually given.

The village is simple, unpretentious, it has no theaters or restaurants. There is a tent-like structure where some folding chairs are placed every Saturday, is has a large sheet stretched out upon a rickety frame. A old projector shows prints of devotional movies in the local language. Tickets are for next to nothing and it serves more as communal meeting place. There are no refreshments unless one brings some from home, passing it around until the container is empty. No ushers, first come, first served, and anyone is free to sit on the ground when the chairs run out. The speakers blare at irregular intervals, especially during songs. The 'regulars' recite the dialogue when the speakers fail, or fade, as they often do. Miracles are greeted with folded hands and bowed heads and some cry out in ecstatic fervour.

There's just one small restaurant, it is actually built onto a residence that abuts the road. Knocking on the window produces a smiling dark face that takes your 'order' from a limited menu that changes according to what is in family fare. It's hot, it's cheap, it's tasty and home-cooked - right in front of your eyes. Stand and eat or be seated ion a rustic bench that seats three. One skinny arm will place small steel glasses of water, to drink or wash hands, as the preference may be.

The names run in families almost in alternation through generations, so to avoid confusion weird nicknames abound. Physical attributes and deformities may be one factor, but it is all in affection, the shortest man in the village and the 5' 10" 'runt' in a family of six-footers would both be called 'Kullanna' - or 'short brother' in literal terms.

Yet, it was home to those two children for three glorious years, they enjoyed being wrapped in the solicitude of much of that population - a shade under nine thousand at that time. They romped through those days but it was probably when they learned to value the small things of life.

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Mumbai's trains: might be related in part by the grandmother when she talks of Mumbai:

I would like to tell a little of a prominent means of transport in Mumbai - the local trains, there are two Main lines, Central and Western, with a Harbour route offshoot for both. They intersect at some vital points, allowing people to travel from far-flung corner to another with relative ease. A microcosm of life in itself, it has to be experienced to be understood - let me take you there ...

Mumbai has roads that are so packed with exhaust spewing vehicles that one might as well sit at home than get into a car to get anywhere. The lumbering red monsters that are buses do somehow manage to bully their way through for the common man and the rattling tin boxes that are laughingly lined up to form trains nevertheless chug to their weary destinations with remarkable efficiency.

These are reliable means of transport that take you from distant suburbs and satellite cities to the center in about an hour and a bit. By road it would take at least twice the same time. You might hesitate at the train station itself, even the over-bridge is lined two deep each side with commuters who have one eye on the next incoming and feet ready to fly down the stairs. Will the Borivali slow come before the Andheri Ladies Special? Or should they wait for the Borivali Fast? Remain in the center, as you navigate that foot over-bridge, where they do not trip you you up as they dash off pell-mell to their chosen train. Large indicators wink destinations that can be translated only by the canny or the experienced. 2 Ad Dn F 07:21 - Well, that is the train in the 'Down' direction, terminating at Andheri, it is a 'Fast', that stops at limited stations, the last numbers indicate the time it will leave the platform no. 2.

The smell is thick, so strong that it hits one's nostrils like a sharp blow. A mixture of sweat, stale fried snacks, rotting rubbish that is discarded anywhere and everywhere. The tracks too have this litter scattered like confetti, biscuit wraps and newspapers, cigarette stubs and empty mineral water bottles. Ragged children swarm the pits to retrieve what is recyclable, clutching large gunny bags of material and hopping up on the platform just before the train swoops in.

It is frightening to see that the trains retain enough speed to maim or crush if they falter. I once offered my hand to one moppet in a tattered too-large dress, her gunny sack larger than she, struggling to get up. The astonished stares of the others on the platform told me that keeping your hands 'clean' was more important than her physical safety. They are the ones who throw it there in the first place, a careless discard just before boarding the train, reluctant to take the two extra steps to the dust bins that languish empty, it would ensure they would not be exactly placed to leap onto the slowing train.

The regulars are inured to the crowds and the train has a mini-culture all its own. 'Dailies' employ all sorts of strategies to sit together and heated fights break out over the invisible 'fourth' seat on a bench built for three. The three seated persons squeeze up against each other to create a space about three inches wide, then someone can just about rest their coccyx upon it, seated at right angles, with knees protruding into the aisle. Thus getting in or out becomes an obstacle race compounded by those standing near each 'booked' seat. This is how the game of 'booking' goes:

The seats are full, a regular spots another daily traveller. She signals with her eyes, and gets a head shake, meaning the 'seat' is not yet claimed. She then gestures to her chest with a finger or makes air gestures to suggest herself, a nod clinches the deal. So, when you are just about to slip into the seat fortunately vacated, mid-way to your destination, a hand descends to arrest that movement and a voice corrects your faux pas, "that seat is mine."

Regulars also always have something to 'do', be it correcting term papers or knitting or tatting miles of lace. Some get their veggies on the journey back and begin to peel and pare, getting a head start on dinner preparations. The guys try to play rummy or bridge on briefcases held on laps. One group even had singing lessons on that one hour journey. You see, for Mumbai, an hour lost from the day is like throwing good money away.

Vendors thread their way in this mass with dexterity, trays of bright baubles, pen sets, needle-thread pouches, colouring books, key-chains, all for less than the smallest note in your purse, the ten rupee one. Viands are also sold, not only for the parched and hungry travellers to partake of, but as snacks to be given to those at home. It saves a trip to the bakers on the way home.

Ah, there's fresh fruit too, smaller and juicer than bazaar-bought, direct from tiny patches of land that run along the tracks. Very tasty and a price bargain too. If you can bear to think of why people grow greens and fruit there in the first place - it is also the world's largest open air bathroom. The rains ensure that land is some of the most fertile in the vicinity, but one has to have the detached Mumbaikar mind to not care how it became that way. Even after early morning squatters on either side of the track provide mute reinforcement of the theory.

One thing about these squatters-in-passing, they draw a towel cloth, the red one that rides on the shoulders of most of the men, or an end of the sari, across their faces, as the train passes. The rest may be exposed, but if identity is clothed, then modesty is preserved. It is even easier in the rainy season, the umbrella will shield both from your eyes.

Sometimes the shanties are so close to the track that one can hear shouts from within as one goes past. Nobody bothers to keep their voices down in these slums, after all the problems are the same in each house, poverty, water scarcity, drunkenness, infidelity, lack of sanitation, poor health, no education, no jobs. If the other guy is screaming at his worthless son, just cuff your own and make him listen to the rant. Saves energy.

One should practise the glare that prevents people coming too close. Don't worry about giving up your seat for the elderly or the heavily pregnant or the ones with infants in arm. They should have travelled first class if they wanted seats. Besides if you just close your eyes and pretend to sleep you can still that sluggish conscience. Train commuting is a whole new mind-set, not for the emotional or weak-hearted.

The journey might be enlivened by the bands of itinerant beggars cum entertainers. They use two stones to clack out a rough rhythm as accompaniment, some might have a bamboo flute or mouth organ wielded in excruciating off-key, but recognizable, renditions of the popular numbers. A few get alms for actual talent, most get it stop them singing or at least get them to move on. For they will shriek endless verses into your ear unless you, or someone nearby, disgorges money. The change is mostly useless anyway, nothing is sold in odd amounts any longer, all are multiples of ten rupees. Even the beggars sometimes give a scathing look at those who cross the palm with niggardly one rupee coins.

Keep hold of your purse/bag or keep money in unreachable places. There are thieves who specialise in getting on the foot-board, waiting until the train starts, snatching the purse of an unwary passenger and getting off as it picks up speed. One can only watch helplessly as he makes his leisured getaway with your money and ID cards. Others make a living from making a deft incision at the bottom of your bag and taking out the stuff in the jostle at alighting or boarding. By the time you swing it around to check, it is empty. They are at times 'honourable', they will post back ID cards and even credit cards. Unless you are foolish enough to keep your PIN where he can lay his hands on it.

People here do not keep cash in front pockets of shirts, or in back pockets of trousers, those are too easily torn right off along with the contents. They have a 'watch-pocket built into the waistband, or even into their inner wear. The ladies of course have recourse to an excellent and age-old method of secreting money. Any thief who reached in there would have the crowd beat him up for a lewd act.

To board or even alight from one of these trains is an art. One has first to detach oneself from the bulging mass of humanity - it's tough, one's face might be squelched against the wall, even as the satchel clutched to one's chest makes manouevering an exercise greeted with shouts and insults. One steps on the fish-ladies with their enormous rush baskets, sprawled right in the middle of the corridor. Thank god, those abuses are so choice they are unintelligible. Squeeze, push, tap on shoulder, "Excuse me, are you getting off at xyz?" Some offer a few millimeters of space to exploit in pushing past, others glare as though to ask why else they are standing with their noses in the armpits of the person ahead. This exercise has to be done at least one station in advance or you will never get out. Two stations ahead, if you are a novice.

Then the train draws in, swinging around the last curve, get ready, hold your elbows ready to push - heard of elbowing one's way, right?

NOW!

Get down with that first surge of alighting commuters, or else you will be swept back in with those rushing to come aboard. Jerk back your odhni
an length of coloured cloth worn as a stole to accent Indian style known as 'salwar kameez'
with force sufficient to twirl that hapless guy around. Otherwise he'll only snatch it from his shoulders and chuck it down where it will be trampled by a thousand shod feet.

The nice guys can get off only at the terminus, they let 'should I' wait upon 'I can'. Seriously, if you want to avoid hassles, either travel only in off-peak hours, a toughie because people are always going somewhere in that city. Or else plan your travel from terminus to terminus only. Even then you won't get a seat unless you have greeted the train as it came in and jumped on before it halted.

I know many NRIs who swear they can't imagine how they used to manage this in their bygone youth and that it seems suicidal now. Me, I still think it is fast, efficient, and cheap. All three appeal to the Mumbaikar in me and I hate other cities which have nothing to whisk me from place to place with the same mindless regularity.

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Siya was munching on a piece of rice flour griddle crispy, it was crunchy and yet slightly sweet and had a tint of tart in it. The colours were plesant too, a sort of golden brown with orange streaks and red flecks, a freckle or two of green and white, all in all it pleased all her senses, even the olfactory ones, the scent of roast onion was familiar to her from onion rings.

"What is this called again, Nima?"

"Well, it was originally called akki rotti, or tattida roti when it was first conceived, but I doubt my grandmother would approve of the many variations it had undergone. The name only means flat griddle cake of rice or griddle cake flattened by patting out, nothing like the Gorilla Vanilla at you ice-cream parlour."

Nima had been taken to the local ice-cream parlour that boasted of a 104 varieties. She was indignant to learn that something with such an exotic name was just a double scoop of ice-cream, one chocolate and one vanilla. She'd grumbled about it all the way home talking of deception and being taken in. Siya had giggled to hear the tirade, a torrent from the normally equable lady. Nandy had smiled in sympathy with her daughter's amusement and said Nima was 'reverting'. Nandy knew her mother had been quite the one to crusade for the right to information and open administration in her days, but quelled her daughter with a glance, mainly because she had no answer to her many questions.

"How come Mommy doesn't make this? It's yummy?"

"Everybody makes something specially well, this is one of my signature dishes. Your Mommy makes superb 'gajor no halwo' without either sugar or ghee, that's an art."

"Can you teach her this one?"

"I'll do better than that, I'll write it down so anyone can make it, maybe even you when you are a little older."

"And that stuffed brinjal one? Or the cucumber in tangy yoghurt? The peanuts in gravy?"

"Hey, you want a whole cookbook, but you'll get just three choices. Think it over and tell me."

"Please, Nima. Just write it down, I won't bother Mommy to make them, just leave it where she can see it if she wants to make them?"

"Quid pro Quo, young lady, you know that."

Siya had played this with Nima often, it only meant a return favour, she was game for fair play.

"Sure."

"Then I want you to write three lines about everyone in this house. One who they are in relation to you. How you feel about them. Why you feel that way."

"Can I write more than three lines?"

"If you want to, but it has to be at least three."

This is what Siya wrote:

Papa's name is SidartSidarth Bhatt, he is my daddy.

I love him almost as much as I love Mommy.

He is strong but soft, I am never scared when he swings me around by my wastewaist.

He laughs from deep inside when he is happy.

Nandy is my mommy's name. Nandy Bhatt

I love her most in the whole world.

She can make me feel all warm and safe and sleepy happy if she just holds my hand.

She makes the kind of food that is both good for us and tasty.

Ribbons is my bear, he is my friend.

I like to know he will always be in my room, waiting for me. For Me.

He is knows exactly what I feel, he is a part of me.

I can't go to sleep without him.

Nima is my Mommy's Mommy.

She is my Grandmother, which means an special type of mother.

She is good at telling stories about real things.

She loves a lot of people but she says I am right at the top of the list.

I love her so much I cannot say it.

Ved is a baby we got recently.

He needs Mommy a lot. He does very little except eat, cry and sleep.

He is my baby brother. I want him to be a real brother soon.

I think he might grow up to be fun but he should hurry up.

I am growing too. I am big and I will be his Didi.

~@~@~@~@~@~@~@~@~@~@~@~@@~@~@~@~@~@~@~

Siya was wondering how it would take Ved to grow up and play with her, wouldn't she be too old to even want to play with him?

"Nima, are those stories you told me true ones? About Nanni and Ravi?"

"Of course, dear. I knew those children very well indeed?"

"Did you know their mother, Jaya? Was she related to the little Jaya of your stories?"

I knew that one was coming, it was only a question of when. Funny that she doesn't think Jaya could grow up and have children of her won, but children do exist only in the present, there's no future and very little past.

"They are all part of the same family, but if you ask me too many questions I might have no time to tell you a story today."

"Nima tell me story about Ravi, when he grows up a little and becomes is old enough to play with Nanni."

"About how old do you want him to be?"

"Can he be Anuj's age? About four or five?"

"I think I can manage that, I'll tell you of the time he gave his mother a surpise for his birthday, shall I?"

"He gave his mother a surprise? For his birthday? Not the other way around? She didn't surprise him?"

"No, I think you will agree, after the story, that he got a party, but she got the surprise."

- INSERT "SURPRISE PARTY" STORY HERE -

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Nima was a little frazzled today, her signature cheesecake had flopped, literally flopped in the center. It was all right to eat, the taste was as yummy as usual, but the sight of the depressed center made her feel down at heart. Then Siya had proved to be recalcitrant about everything today, she seemed to have taken a leaf out the book of government servants back home who worked-to-rule or went on go-slow agitations. Gandhiji was the Father of Passive-Agressive, thought she, irreverently.

She was glad to be left alone for once, fantasizing about being all alone all the time, no one to look after, no responsibility. She thought back to a time when ...

The front door made its noisy multiple clack announcement of an authorized entry and the absence of a thudding briefcase or a cheery loud greeting said it was her sedate daughter who had come in. Nima continued to fold away the latest load of Ved's laundry, the child got through an amazing number of clothes. Thank god the diapers are disposable, or else one would have another two loads.

Nandy sighed, "Good you've done that load of laundry, thanks to Pampers for halving that chore."

"Funny, I was just thinking the same thing. When you kids were small, in that rainy, humid Bangalore weather four dozen cloth nappies were not enough to ensure a dry nappy when I needed one."

"So, did you buy four more dozen?"

"And get rapped for needless expense? I had already been told not to bother changing nappies so often if I had less, or to leave you bare bottomed for a while. No, it was pure genius I swear, tedious, but genius all the same."

Nandy waited, her mother always told things in her own time and words.

A triumphant look crossed Nima's face, "I ironed them after they had dripped dry and were just damp, then aired them on a line in the in the kitchen, the warmest place in the house."

"Nappies in the kitchen? Really, Ma!"

"The kitchens of those houses were large enough and it was nowhere near the cooking or preparation area. I had them dry in under six hours. What used to take more than a day before, took a quarter of the time. Even your father appreciated my shortcut, although he never did more than that, no offers to help with the ironing."

"Was that the reason for the incredibly sad look on your face?" Nandy teased her mother.

"No sweetheart, I was a wee bit upset with your darling daughter today, she decided to show me her mule streak today."

"Are you sorry you offered to send her off to school while I went shopping today?"

"No, no. Sending kids off to school is a breeze over here. After all, I juggled you two, in-laws, a job and lots of other things at one time. It's just that it's new to have responsibility for a child again, I was wishing to be 'free' and able to do my own 'thing'. Then I thought back to the first day I was alone, after you went off abroad. How desolate I felt that day."

"You aren't alone now, you never will be. Stay with us, but you are always longing to be off to Mumbai."

"Darling it's in my bones, I cannot breathe except in that fume-laden, over-crowded, organized chaos that is Mumbai. But, my dearest ones will be with me in spirit."

Seemingly irrelevantly she added, 'do you know I still have Rinku?"

Nandy's face lit up, "Really?"

Then a shame faced grin spread across it,"I nearly asked you how he was."

"He's fine, he sends you his love. He wants to know if you will be coming antime soon to make his favourite drink"

"Ma-aa," the long drawn out portest was ignored as Nima continued her thoughts.

"In fact, tonight I will tell Siya the story of How Rinku was Thirsty."

Nandy did not argue, the story was a firm favourite with her motehr, she had even told it to Siddarth before they got married, endangering the whole affair in Nandy's opinion. Siddarth had merely found it endearing and recommended that Ma should write it up. Luckily for everybody, her job gave her little time to write down the stories that she related with much gusto.

Dear God, until now.

Nandy looked at her mother with horror but only got back a look of smug satisfaction. What was in store for them?

Insert:"RINKU IS THIRSTY" story here.

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Nima stood over Siya as she put her books in order, her hands wandered over the titles of those still scattered on her bed.

"The Cat Who Went To Heaven, my I remember reading that book. Do you like it?"

"I really do, the cat tries so hard to live upto his master's idea of good. The pictures are so great too, the cat is just living on the pages, waiting to leap into my arms."

Nima thought of her own childhood, how the fact that as the youngest in a house where everybody read, she had first read adult things, like newspapers and adult fiction, struggling with words and meaning, no helpful pictures, no being 'read to'. She did not know if that was a good thing ar a bad thing, but any word she asked for help to pronounce or understand was patiently explained, with example. She was encouraged to pick up and read anything, never told she was 'too young' for anything. With the result that her English reading was far above required standard when she started school. It had been the talking point of many a family gathering, that 'Jaya can read Erle Stanley Gardner and understand the story - she's only eight.'

One uncle had decided to test the issue and had bought her a brand new novel of his, it must have been - yes, it was - "The Case of the Drowning Duck". He had been sure she had skipped to the end when she handed it back a scant three hours later, but extensive quizzing reveled she knew every twist of the story. She might not have known the exact meaning of some words, but she had even explained to him something that puzzled Sgt. Holcolmb - admittedly a bumbler, in the story - corpus deliciti.

It looked like Siya too could absorb more than the recommended level for her age, nobody had read the story to her.

"Do you like to read stories to yourself, Siya?"

"Yes, but I like it better when you tell me them, I can ask you questions about it. I want to know so much more about India. I would love to come there."

"So, today who's it going to be? Jaya, or Nanni, or Ravi?"

"Nima, Mommy said you knew one more little girl, who lived in real village farm, who went to school by bullock cart. Tell me about her."

Ah, Nandy has been busy ensuring I am kept busy. This will take a little thought, but I did tell Ravi and his sister the same tales, so let's see if I can pick up the thread.

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Lata was the darling of the household, a girl born after five boys, she was cherished as girls almost never were in those times. Her father started to prosper in his career shortly after she was born and that set the seal of approval on things - she must be veritable incarnation of Laxmi, the Goddess of Wealth.

Another brother, Sriram, was born a little over one year later, but she remained firmly ensconced in the hearts of both siblings and parents, she was still the only girl. Two little girls were to come eight and ten years later, but for much of her childhood she ruled that household. Naturally, she did all that the boys did, climbed trees, jumped ditches. Equally naturally she cried if she could not physically keep up with them and they all good-naturedly let her catch up. Except her younger brother, he would challenge her authority and fight with her for every little treat they got as the 'little ones'.

The winning was more important than the prize and if he couldn't win, he'd see to it that she didn't either. The situation was like the story of the two monkeys and the cat, it was the cat that benefited.

If you don't know the story, Siya didn't either, the two monkeys had one large - let's call it a cookie for convenience - to share. Huh? Oh their Mommy had mad eonly this one large one, and told them to be nice and share, good monkeys that they were.

But they weren't very good and began to argue over how to divide it exactly in two, the argument led to a fight and the fight led to a badly broken cookie. Badly broken because there was one big piece and one little one, so they began a fight over who got which.

Up came a sleek cat, winding her long tail around her, she batter her eyes at them, "Now, now boys! Stop fighting."

She was a very beautiful cat and at any other time they might have fought over the right to show her the grove. But now they had more important things to ponder.

Ping! The idea lit up both their brains at the same instant, why not ask the cat to decide the matter?

So they invited her to adjudicate and give the bigger peice to whoever deserved it more, each flexed his muscles and preened their fur to look the better monkey.

The cat stared at them in the way cats have, all wide eyed and not letting on what she thought.

"Hmmm, the pieces are really too uneven, do you think I can make it a little less unequal? I wouldn't want either of you to feel bad, after all. You both look so nice."

Here she bared two neat rows of teeth and took a delicate bite of the larger chunk, making appreciative noises as she ate the cookie bit.

There was still plenty left for the monkeys so they waited for her to speak, being a polite and well brought up cat, she had to wait until her mouth was empty.

"Oh dear, oh dear! What have I done? Now the other piece is a just a shade bigger, pardon me boys."

Here she took a bite from the other piece of cookie.

Many bites later the monkeys were impatient, the issue was yet undecided and cookie bits were getting really small.

The cat gave just a hint of a smile, she narrowed her eyes and swished her tails in the air. She looked athe bits in her pws and the two dejected monkeys, "I think these bits are so small you wouldn't be able to relsih them at all. I better eat them myself."

She suited the action to the words, leaving the monkeys bereft. She licked her lips and purred, "Boys, do call call me if your mother makes these cookies again."

The monkeys were wiser now and they never needed to call the cat again.

Siya understood that a story about sharing was about to come up, but she was getting a double dose of story, any message was fine with her.

Lata and Ram went to the village school, about two miles away from their sprawling farm house. The distance was not as far as it seems to us and all the village children could be seen making a beeline for it in the mornings, in various proportions of uniform. Many did not wear the clumsy thick leather shoes prescribed, some because leather products were taboo, some because it was so alien to their custom of going barefoot or in slippers, some because the expense was not worth it. Some of the boys had on shorts or shirts of non-uniform variety and just one item to indicate their intention of attending school. Most girls would have a neat,clean uniform, even if it was not ironed, but a few would have taken a cue from the boys' attitudes. They'd straggle up the main road and turn into one of the many shortcuts across the fields, munching filched fruits as they went. A few might even detour to the riverside that day, missing school but returning home after a days' romp in the waters.

Lata and Ram were probably the only two in the entire school to turn up in full uniform, stiffly starched and pressed, shoes gleaming away like foot mirrors. Their attendance was ensured by their being driven there in full pomp, in the farm cart, by one of the farm workers. They had a longer road and a lonely road, only the two of them, rattling in the back of the bullock cart. Sometimes there would be vegetables or fruits that was being taken to the market in the nearby town, sometimes it would have material in it on the way back. Most times it would be called out to get the two children to school.

It made another trip at noon, an enormous five container steel 'tiffin' would carry their combined lunch, along with steel plates, tumblers, bowls, a sheet to spread for sitting on, plenty of water, a towel to wipe hands. He would throw the reins over the yoke, fastening them with a deft twist of his hand, but the bullocks would have already lowered their heads to the juicy green grass on the school fields, they weren't going anywhere. They would leave the grass some suitable thanks, manure for verdant pastures, if Yellappa did not spot it and scoop it up. Not from any great civic duty, but because it was important for so many things - manure, building material, freshening of mud floors, ritual use, fuel.

He would spring down from the cart and spread the sheet out on some flattish bit of the field, under a convenient shaded tree, the children might like to play in the hot sun, but he wanted to rest in the shade.

"Amma, Anna, come and have you food."

He would set out the plates, and other paraphernalia as the children ran up to him, admonishing them to wash their hands first, ignoring all claims of having already done so. A trickle of water from the jug served as it flowed over each reluctant pair of hands, amidst jostling now to be the first to finish washing. a shaty wipe on the proffered snowy white towel and they were seated cross-legged before the repast to come.

"What's for lunch, Yellappa? Did Amma send the potato gravy I wanted?"

A scornful correction would end that heopful surmise, "Of course, not. She was cleaning drumsticks today was she not, I think she's made sambhar from that."

"Just because you are a girl doesn't mean you are a mind-reader, she will have made potatoes for me."

"Let me open the dabbas, you two. Ah, what is this, potato and onion sambhar, looks like you both got you wishes."

But the concerted pouts indicated othewise.

"I wanted dry vegetable, not this wet stuff, more water than vegetable."

"I suppose Amma would have to tip out all the sambhar for you? But what did she do with the drumsticks, there's only your goofy potatoes in there. I guess you can give me more of the onions, Yellapa, he can have the potatoes."

"No, I want half the onions, you have half the potatoes."

"I am being good enough to leave you some onion, you're the one who said he wanted potato."

"I wanted potato when it was dry, not this stupid swimming in liquid stuff."

"Potato is potato, fair is fair."

"Share everything, that is what Amma says."

"I suppose you'd have shared if dry potato vegetable was sent?"

By this time the food would be congealing on the plates as they glowered into each others' faces, neither willing to give an inch.

"Come little ones, eat before it get spoilt."

"I'm not hungry, give it all to the little selfish beast."

"I'm not hungry, give it to the big greedy bully."

Cajoling, threatening, nothing would work. They'd finally both round on the hapless driver and tell him to eat it himself if he was so worried their mother's effort would be wasted. Which he would do with relish, letting out a belch of appreciation in the end.

He would then go to sleep under the tree, waiting for school to end, so they could all go home together, there were never any chores in the afternoon, not on the farm.

By the evening, the children would have forgotten that contretemps, they would be coming out of the school gate shoulder to shoulder, exchanging merry notes of their school day. Three-quarters of the journey would be accomplished in that happy mood, they'd be both regaling Yellappa with exaggerated claims of scholastic prowess. RIght up to the old banyan tree that marked the boundary of the farm, the road wound around the property.

The, one or the other would slip down, trying to be casual about it.

"You go on, Yellana, I just remembered I had to go by the stables to tell old Karia something."

The other would scramble after, in haste, lest the shortcut be missed,"Yes, I too will get down. Slow down, I will just chuck my shoes in."

Both sets of shoes would be shucked in record time, the socks would follow suit like magic. Even the upper garments would be divested from lithe bodies, and two urchins would pelt home, barelegged, clad in petticoat or banian-undershorts.

Lata's hair would be flying behind her, the ribbons loose and fluttering like a kite's tail. Ram's face would be slick with sweat and grime, his legs pumping away as though the devil himself was pursuing.

They'd usually touch the pillar of the front proch at the very same instant, but as each would be intent only on his or her feat, neither would admit it to be a tie. Each was sure they had come home 'first' and would clamour for their mother to decide the issue.

That long suffering lady would come to the door with hasty steps, what accident had befallen those two now?

But, what greeted her eyes would be the daily skirmish, the right to be declared the first one to 'come' home. There was no prize, nothing other than a good scold for these repeated antics and despair as the empty cart trundled in at the gate to come to a flourishing halt.

Yellana would wipe his moustache and tell their mother, Oota bhala chanaga ithu, Amma.

The food was excellent, Mother

One hand would massage a protuberant belly in reminiscent appreciation as he descended and handed her over the tiffin carrier, now gloriously empty.

The unrepentant children would chorus, "What's for snacks, Amma? We're so hungry. Do you know Yellanna ate all the food and didn't give us any?"

Yellana would be quaking at the idea that he be thought capable of that terrible deed, but the reproachful glance that had been cast at him was more a faint wish that someday they would be convinced to stop fighting long enough to eat. He would hand over their school clothes with a cowed and whipped expression, maybe next he'd be accused of stealing the clothes from their backs?

But, no. They were already splashing in the courtyard, fighting over the bucket and chombu

a pot-shaped narrow necked steel or brass vessel, to ladle water

there, washing their faces, hands and feet before coming into the house. The past was past, they had snacks to divide now, counting each crumb with a jealous suspicion. It had been counted or measured before serving by their long-suffering parent, but they did not quite acquit her of bad mathematics.

Their mother gave a sigh and walked in to the house, these two were as much trouble as the other five put together. But she knew any attempt to separate them would result in whines and ringing pleas of better behaviour, the remedy was worse than the affliction.

At night, though, something miraculous would take place.

They'd be asleep next to each other, finally at peace, arms around each other, this one's leg entangled with another's knee, like puppies in a basket. Faces turned to each other and lips faintly moving.

Perhaps in their sleep, they are allies?

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