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people talk about how she shows her legs while playing, as if we live in America. The boys are all scared of her. Who will marry her with this reputation?’
    Mary interrupts her mother, something I have not seen her do before. ‘Aai, if we win the National match each of us will get a government job. I will have a career, status and a regular salary. You will not have to worry about what people say. All The Agnis need is to win two more games.’
    Fatima turns to Sara and me, and says, ‘So much depends on these next two matches. My Aai and Baba also want me to leave basketball and get married. But if we win state and national matches, I get a little money. Then wedding plans cancel!’
    â€˜You girls are dreaming. If we win next game and enter National, where is the money to go to Delhi for National tournament? India Basketball Association is sponsoring only the boys’ team,’ Rahima chimes in.
    â€˜Money, no money, we have to win the State match, we have to be the best girls’ team in Maharashtra,’ Fatima says, holding her head high.
    Mary speaks again and I’m surprised at the fierceness in her voice. ‘If we enter the Nationals, I will do anything to go to Delhi. Anything.’
    I look down at the cracked cement floor of Mary’s kholi. These girls’ unspoken stories—told by their torn shirts, their thin bodies—gather like screams around me. I feel like I’m shrinking under the weight of their ambition, their rebellion by making basketball—which I treat as a hobby, a joke—a career. It holds me by the scruff of my neck. There is no air in this windowless room.
    â€˜I have to go,’ I say, and before anyone can stop me, I leave the kholi.
    I hear Sara throw a confused apology to the girls, but she follows me as I quickly find my way back to our waiting car.
    â€˜What is wrong with you?’ Sara shouts when I stop, waiting for Lalit to reverse the car.
    â€˜I don’t want to talk about it,’ I say with finality.
    â€˜You didn’t have to be so rude. It isn’t their fault that they’re poor,’ Sara says.
    â€˜It wasn’t that,’ I reply, suddenly too exhausted to explain myself.
    Sara sees this, and says softly, ‘This place, these girls, really make you question what you believe in, don’t they?’
    I avoid looking at her.
    â€˜We could have at least finished the tea,’ she adds.
    ~
    As I am opening the door of the car Sara exclaims, ‘Look. A bird. I think she’s injured.’
    I look where she’s pointing and see a sparrow lying on its side, its eyes open but vacant, as if it has lost all hope.
    Sara bends to pick it up. ‘Maybe one of the dogs attacked it.’
    â€˜Don’t touch it or the other sparrows will kill it,’ I warn.
    But Sara is in no mood to listen to me any more. She empties an Aldo shoebox lying in the car and puts the sparrow inside it. The sparrow lies absolutely still as Sara softly coos to it.
    When we reach home Sara asks me what to do with the sparrow. ‘Should we call a vet?’
    I look inside the shoebox where the sparrow has shat little yellow-grey droppings.
    â€˜Why do you try to rescue everyone and then expect me to bail you out?’ I ask her. She doesn’t reply so I add, ‘It’s the heat. Give the sparrow some water and it’ll be fine.’
    Sara sets down the box carefully on the couch and goes into the kitchen. She starts boiling water, as she’s seen Mary do.
    â€˜It’s a bird, Sara, you can give it normal tap water,’ I tell her.
    â€˜The bird is not an “it” but a she,’ Sara says, and continues boiling the water.
    â€˜By the time the water cools, the sparrow will die of dehydration.’
    I fill some tap water in a small steel bowl and take out the dropper from Papa’s bottle of eye drops. I make Sara open the sparrow’s beak while I drip some water into her