Cracking India by Bapsi Sidhwa

shoves the bundle at my father.
    Before she’s had time to move to her cupboard Father has flicked through the notes and counted them. “Arrey! You’ve taken far too much!” he exclaims as if shaken to the core and bankrupted by the banditry. But I am also schooled to read between the lines of my father’s face. His heart is not in his anguish. Mother must have withdrawn a very meager and reasonable sum indeed!
    â€œShe’s bent on destroying us,” Father grumbles, striking his forehead again and again. “Money Money Money Money! From morning to night. Money Money Money Money! I’m fed up.”
    But Mother, with dew in her eyes and a misty smile, blows him kisses. And, having locked the money in her cupboard, she goes about her business of picking up Father’s clothes and tidying the beds and getting dressed.

Chapter 9
    To our left is the Singhs’ large bungalow. The compound wall we share is partially broken by the sloping trunk of a eucalyptus tree near our kitchen. This is where Rosy, Peter, Adi and I, and sometimes Cousin, gather to discuss world affairs, human relationships, Mr. and Mrs. Singh’s uncut hair and Rosy’s sister’s impending baby.
    â€œI’ll tell you how babies come,” says Rosy.
    â€œOh, we know,” I say, “Ayah’s already told us.”
    â€œHow?” challenges Rosy. “The stork brings them?”
    Rosy sighs, rolling her eyes. “I’ll tell you how they are made,” she persists; “my sister’s told me everything.”
    Rosy is obnoxiously smug and swollen these days. She may walk about with a grown-up air—but her cotton knickers, I notice, remain wet. Her big sister unquestionably pumps her with questionable knowledge.
    â€œIf your sister knows so much, how come she could not even pass her Matric exam?” I ask.
    Rosy has picked up a reasonable way of talking which gives me goose bumps. “Passing Matric exams has nothing to do with having babies,” she explains sweetly. “She has a husband who she loves—and who loves her... ”
    â€œShe’s got to have a husband, stupid! She’s married isn’t she?” Adi butts in, “and married people have babies! That’s all there is to it!”
    â€œYou’re much too young to understand such things,” says Rosy.
    â€œI’ll show you who’s too young,” says Adi, pushing her back and jumping the wall after her and knocking her down and throwing himself upon her. They argue with their limbs and voices, churning dust. How is Rosy to know that just that morning Cousin
settled an argument with Adi by shoving him off Skinny-aunt’s veranda saying: “You’re too small to know anything, stupid. Scram!”
    The kitchen door banging shut, Yousaf emerges to investigate the row. He snatches Adi up and Rosy, dragged to her feet by her hair, emits a bloody yell that curdles the milk in Mr. Singh’s buffaloes. Yousaf carries Adi kicking and cursing into the kitchen.
    For the moment at least Adi has knocked the stuffing out of Rosy’s intolerable grown-uppishness. Red-faced, bawling, martyred, wet knicker bottoms caked with mud and arms outstretched, Rosy totters in slow motion towards her veranda.
    Putting on a straight face I jump the wall after Rosy. I place a hypocritical arm protectively round her shoulders and console her all the way up the veranda steps to her room.
    â€œWhat is it, Rosy? What is the matter, dear?” warbles Mrs. Singh in her cool-water-in-a-jug American voice from somewhere in the house.
    Rosy bawls something indecipherable and Mrs. Singh, apparently satisfied, asks no more questions.
    Â 
    The three miniature glass jars wink at me!
    Leaving Rosy to cope with her hurt feelings and bruised flesh, I crouch before them. One by one I lift the fragile jars and remove their tiny crystal stoppers. They gleam, reflecting rainbow hues—insinuating