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had adopted, who was sprawled on the little veranda outside the bathroom and licking his paws in the sun, came bounding up and started running in circles around Jacinta’s legs, tugging at the ends of her sari.
    ‘Shoo, Rex, Shoo,’ said Jacinta, the first words she had spoken since she came to pick Shirin up at the school.
    Madhu came rushing out of the kitchen, wiping her hands hurriedly on her housecoat, her hair flying in all directions. ‘What happened? Oh, Shirin, baby, look at your knees!’
    Without a word of explanation, Jacinta carried Shirin in through the open front door and lay her down on the floor of the living room.
    Madhu fussed over her. She wiped Shirin’s face with a damp cloth and gently cleaned her knees and her sore palm. She applied Boroline—her panacea for all childhood scrapes and hurts—to Shirin’s knees and led her into the kitchen. When the peon from school had come to fetch Jacinta, Madhu knew something had happened. She had made Shirin’s favourite potato bondas with coriander-and-mint chutney. She sat Shirin down on her lap and fed her. But Shirin, who loved all food, and who had committed this, her first great transgression for love of food, found that she could not eat. But she knew that if she refused to eat, Madhu would worry, so Shirin forced the bondas down through the tears and the fat lump of shame and regret which sat in her throat. Even as an adult, she would never again eat potato bondas without experiencing a slight aftertaste of guilt and shame.
    In the days that followed, Shirin worried that her mother was displeased with her and would never love her again.
    As always, Madhu sensed her anguish. As she oiled Shirin’s long hair with warm coconut oil, Madhu said, ‘She looks upset because she is tired, Shirin, not because of you. This baby she is carrying is giving her a lot of trouble. I bet it’s another boy.’ Shirin could hear the smile in Madhu’s voice when she said ‘boy’, the awe which accompanied the word.
    ‘Madhu,’ she whispered, turning round to face Madhu just as she was starting on the second plait, her eyes wide with worry, ‘Ma’s face, when she carried me, was so... so...’
    ‘Angry?’ Madhu prompted, and then, at Shirin’s nod, cupped her face in her palm. ‘Silly girl, she was angry with Sister Maya.’
    ‘Sister Maya?’ Shirin was shocked, sure that for once Madhu had got it wrong. This was her mother they were talking about. Her mother. Who had taught her that nuns and priests were equivalent to God. ‘No. I don’t believe you.’
    ‘She told me so.’ Madhu smiled gently, ‘She did not agree with what Sister Maya did but she didn’t say anything to her. She couldn’t. That’s why she was upset.’
    Her ma hadn’t looked upset. She had looked angry.
    ‘She grew up in a convent, see.’ Madhu’s voice was soothing.
    ‘Who?’
    ‘Your ma, that’s who.’
    ‘Really?’ This was news to Shirin. She thought about this for a minute, wrinkling her nose. How horrible, to grow up with nuns! A turquoise butterfly with yellow suns on its wings hovered close. ‘Did she not have a ma and da then?’
    ‘She did, but they weren’t very nice. So she had to stay with the nuns.’
    Shirin was quiet for a minute, pondering. The butterfly landed on the hibiscus plant nearby and Shirin’s fingers itched to catch it. ‘Will I be sent to live with nuns if I am naughty again?’
    Madhu laughed, the sound reassuring Shirin more than the words that followed. ‘Of course not, you silly girl! Now turn around. I need to finish plaiting your hair else you will be late for school.’
    ‘I don’t want to go to school anyway. Everyone is teasing me, and I have to wear long socks to hide the bruises on my knees, and they itch ...’ All the agony and worry of the past few days burst out in a torrent of tears.
    Madhu gathered her in her arms. ‘Shh... It’s okay, Shirin. Have your bruises not healed yet? Ayyo, poor you! Why didn’t you tell