July 7th, 2011
Edited by Emily Schultz
“When I was a child, in my backyard, there grew a sapodilla tree. In the summer my parents would send me to collect the ripened chikoo fruit, or to drive away the monkeys who would try to steal them, with their long, curling tails and clever fingers. But now I live as far as possible from that house; the chikoos have become the strings of lights wrapped around my balcony and the monkeys replaced by young hooligans who, at this very moment, are tearing them down. I watch helplessly from the roof of my building as three of them disappear down an alley, leaving a river of coloured, broken glass.
My brother-in-law, Madhukar, tells me it is fruitless to compare these places, old country to new: “What is the point, brother, of thinking of ‘Here’ or ‘There’,” he says, “when you can only be where you are?” Then he raises his eyebrows and waves his hands, as if he were casting a spell over me, as if he were expecting I should be dazzled by his penny wisdom, and I tell him how he is full of shit.”
Read the story here.