It’s a Sunday. I’m collecting fallen gooseberries under the tall, shady tree outside our house. A rickshaw stops at the door. Safina Khala, my aunt—Ammi’s younger sister—steps out. She’s wearing salwar-kameez, blue like the sky above. Khala! I give her a hug, hold her warm hand, and lead her inside, into the courtyard. She gives me a bunch of bananas from the woven basket she’s carrying. Who’s it? Ammi calls from the kitchen, then emerges, bringing with her a whiff of mutton biryani. She freezes in the doorway on seeing Khala, stares her sister down, head to toe, then wipes her brow with the dupatta in slow motion. Abba looks up from polishing his work shoes, and says, Aao, aao, Safina. Welcome, Safina. He goes inside, brings back a pink 20-rupee note, hands it to me, Here, son, bring a fruit cake for Khala. Ammi instructs me to ask the baker for yesterday’s cake, it’ll be cheaper. I run to the bakery, my mouth watering. When I return, Khala’s gone.
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