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give Nitin his name, as well?”
    “No, this time it really was your Grandfather’s suggestion, but your mother and I both liked the name Nitin, so it worked out all right.”
    Biren skipped along and repeated softly, “Lord of Warriors and Master of the Right Path.” More loudly, he said, “I am glad I am the warrior, Baba. One day I will become a lawyer and I will fight for Charudi so she can enter the temple.”
    “Oh, I don’t think she’s missing much,” said Shamol drily. “I am not even sure she cares to enter the temple. She has found what she needs under the banyan tree.”
    “I will still fight for her. I think she wants me to. That is why she secretly wrote my name and pretended it was only a design.”
    “Just keep it to yourself, mia . Do you know the wise sages believe there is a great power in secrecy? If you talk loosely about your intentions this power will disappear. But if you keep your good intentions a secret, the universe will conspire to make it happen. This is one of the great spiritual truths, mia . Wise people never talk about their intentions. They let their actions speak for them.”

CHAPTER
    9
    It was Shamol’s day off. He sat on the kitchen steps in his pajamas with Nitin half dozing on his lap, a cup of tea and a sugared toast beside him. Shamol watched Biren play marbles in the courtyard. His aim was excellent; he rarely missed. But as soon as one marble clicked against the other, a tiger-striped calico cat hiding behind the holy basil shot out to pounce on the marble, spoiling Biren’s game.
    Biren stamped his foot. “Shoo!” he said sternly to the cat. He grabbed the marble out of its paws and placed it back on the spot where it had rolled. “The cat is not letting me play, Baba,” he complained to Shamol.
    Shamol took a sip of his tea. “Perhaps he wants to play, too.”
    “I want to play, too,” said Nitin, taking his thumb out of his mouth. He clambered off Shamol’s lap.
    “Now you have two cats to play with you,” said Shamol, smiling.
    Biren sighed.
    “Aye, Khoka!” Granny called to Shamol from the kitchen window. Granny always called Father by his boyhood name every time she wanted something done. “Plant the marigold seedlings in the pots for me, will you? I want to grow the flowers for my puja .”
    “Yes, Mother,” Shamol called back. “I am just finishing my tea.”
    Biren glared indignantly at the retreating form of his grandmother. Khoka, do this, Khoka, do that. Never a moment of peace for poor Father. No time to even enjoy his cup of tea!
    Shamol whistled a boatman’s song and went into the kitchen to return his cup. He must have said something funny because Mother replied with a laugh—the girlish laugh she reserved especially for him. His parents had their own little secrets, Biren suspected. Where did they run off to in the middle of the night? And why was there sand on their bed in the morning?
    Shamol emerged from the kitchen. “Is anybody going to help me plant the marigolds?” he asked.
    “I want to play with marbles,” said Nitin. “Dada, play marbles with me.”
    “You play with the cat,” said Biren in an imperious voice.
    “I don’t want to play with the cat,” Nitin pouted.
    “Come along, then, wear your slippers,” said Shamol, heading toward the woodshed. The two boys ran to catch up with him.
    Shamol dug up the rich black soil, Biren broke up the clumps and placed them in the terra-cotta pot and Nitin sat on his haunches and handed Biren the seedlings one by one.
    “Careful, mia , you are pulling them up too roughly,” Shamol said. He took the seedling from Nitin’s hand and pointed to the roots. “See these small white hairs? If you break them, the plant will die. Use a stick and pull out the seedling very gently, like this, see?”
    “Father, if you could be a tree—any tree in the world—what tree would you be?” Biren asked suddenly.
    Shamol leaned on the worn-out handle of the shovel. “What tree would I