We’d travel through the sky to live with Appa. There’d be snow, not only on the mountain tops, and people’s wealth would make them smile. “Is it today, Amma?” I asked each morning as we squatted on the riverbank. “Is it today?”
There was no snow, no mountains even. The English – white-skinned as if dusted with talcum powder – scowled. And there was nowhere to go.
Appa showed me a porcelain throne in a tiny room. I dared not squat on that hollow seat lest I fall through. I followed the dog to the garden. The neighbours screamed, “Filthy Wog!”