something. Why are you so much trouble, Sanjay? Why did you come to this house, singer?’
‘Food,’ I said. ‘I was hungry. You can’t blame me for that.’
‘Food!’ Yama cried. ‘That’s it! You’re a thief, Parasher, a filcher of clothes, a robber, a pilferer, a rifler!’
‘Listen, calm down,’ I said. ‘I was only making a living.’
‘Thieves and poets,’ Hanuman said, ricocheting from the walls, eyes dark, ‘poets and thieves. And who is the fat patron of
poets and thieves? All right, you fat snoot-face, where are you? Come on out, broken-tusk!’
There was a scraping behind the wall under the bookshelves, a rubbing of something over brick and wood, and Hanuman leapt
at the wall, hand outstretched. His fist punched a hole in the wall (my friends watched the brick shatter, mouths open) and
disappeared behind the plaster; for a moment, Hanuman struggled, pulling back, and then a nasal voice said: ‘All right, all
right. I’ll come out.’
Hanuman eased away from the wall, and a small mouse backed out of the hole, its tail still gripped by the Wind-son’s fingers.
A small figure hopped off the mouse’s back and took a few steps, growing larger with every step. My face curved in a ridiculous
smile; I clapped my hands; I burst into laughter.
‘O snoot-face!’ I said. ‘O marvellous excellent fat one!’
Ganesha picked daintily at his shawl with plump fingers, until it lay just so, and his trunk twisted about his head and neck,
adjusting the brilliant necklaces of unearthly stones and the crown of gold.
‘Do you have to be so rough, monkey?’ he said. ‘Uncouth.’
Hanuman was scratching the mouse between its ears, and he looked up, laughing. ‘What were you doing skulking inside walls,
han?’ Hanuman said.
‘There was a story to be told, and so, naturally, I came. Even though people around here seem to have forgotten who I am.’
‘The remover of obstacles himself,’ Yama growled. ‘So it’s been you all along. Did you interfere with my scribes? Have you
been casting spells, making things easy for this monkey-man here?’
‘Who, me?’ said Ganesha, looking innocently at the Death-lord with his sunken elephant eyes. ‘I haven’t done anything at all.
I’ve only been here for the last minute or so.’
‘Thank you,’ I said, bowing to the son of Shiva. ‘Thank you.’
‘I did nothing,’ he said, his big grey head inscrutable, the ears flapping gently to and fro. ‘Come, nearly time to start.’
He settled himself on the bed, next to the typewriter. Saira hopped up onto the sheets and sat on the other side of the machine.
The dooropened, and Zahira and Mrinalini came in. I could hear faint whispers circling the court-yard.
‘I’m not sure about this still,’ Zahira said, putting a protective arm around her daughter.
‘Sister, it’s all right,’ Mrinalini said. ‘My son’s here too.’
‘Yes, he is, isn’t he?’ Zahira said, looking at Abhay curiously. ‘Well, Allah will protect. But only the children are in the
house now; the rest of the crowd is outside, scattered on the maidan, and they want to listen to the story, too. Will you
pass papers back and forth, from here to the court-yard, from there to outside? And it will be read here, and then there?’
‘It’ll never work,’ Ashok said. ‘You’re asking for confusion.’
Ganesha nudged me and whispered in my ear, and I typed: ‘Ganesha is here (we seek his blessing in our endeavours to attain
wisdom and knowledge).’ I received another nudge, none too gentle, in the ribs (just as Saira squealed, ‘Ganapati baba moriya,
Ganesha is here!’), and so I went on: ‘Ganesha asks if you have a stereo speaker and if you do you should put it on the roof,
never mind about the wires.’
Instructions were sent out to the willing children for this to be done, while I explained to the rest of my family (I think
I can use that word now) what had happened. They looked a
‘Food,’ I said. ‘I was hungry. You can’t blame me for that.’
‘Food!’ Yama cried. ‘That’s it! You’re a thief, Parasher, a filcher of clothes, a robber, a pilferer, a rifler!’
‘Listen, calm down,’ I said. ‘I was only making a living.’
‘Thieves and poets,’ Hanuman said, ricocheting from the walls, eyes dark, ‘poets and thieves. And who is the fat patron of
poets and thieves? All right, you fat snoot-face, where are you? Come on out, broken-tusk!’
There was a scraping behind the wall under the bookshelves, a rubbing of something over brick and wood, and Hanuman leapt
at the wall, hand outstretched. His fist punched a hole in the wall (my friends watched the brick shatter, mouths open) and
disappeared behind the plaster; for a moment, Hanuman struggled, pulling back, and then a nasal voice said: ‘All right, all
right. I’ll come out.’
Hanuman eased away from the wall, and a small mouse backed out of the hole, its tail still gripped by the Wind-son’s fingers.
A small figure hopped off the mouse’s back and took a few steps, growing larger with every step. My face curved in a ridiculous
smile; I clapped my hands; I burst into laughter.
‘O snoot-face!’ I said. ‘O marvellous excellent fat one!’
Ganesha picked daintily at his shawl with plump fingers, until it lay just so, and his trunk twisted about his head and neck,
adjusting the brilliant necklaces of unearthly stones and the crown of gold.
‘Do you have to be so rough, monkey?’ he said. ‘Uncouth.’
Hanuman was scratching the mouse between its ears, and he looked up, laughing. ‘What were you doing skulking inside walls,
han?’ Hanuman said.
‘There was a story to be told, and so, naturally, I came. Even though people around here seem to have forgotten who I am.’
‘The remover of obstacles himself,’ Yama growled. ‘So it’s been you all along. Did you interfere with my scribes? Have you
been casting spells, making things easy for this monkey-man here?’
‘Who, me?’ said Ganesha, looking innocently at the Death-lord with his sunken elephant eyes. ‘I haven’t done anything at all.
I’ve only been here for the last minute or so.’
‘Thank you,’ I said, bowing to the son of Shiva. ‘Thank you.’
‘I did nothing,’ he said, his big grey head inscrutable, the ears flapping gently to and fro. ‘Come, nearly time to start.’
He settled himself on the bed, next to the typewriter. Saira hopped up onto the sheets and sat on the other side of the machine.
The dooropened, and Zahira and Mrinalini came in. I could hear faint whispers circling the court-yard.
‘I’m not sure about this still,’ Zahira said, putting a protective arm around her daughter.
‘Sister, it’s all right,’ Mrinalini said. ‘My son’s here too.’
‘Yes, he is, isn’t he?’ Zahira said, looking at Abhay curiously. ‘Well, Allah will protect. But only the children are in the
house now; the rest of the crowd is outside, scattered on the maidan, and they want to listen to the story, too. Will you
pass papers back and forth, from here to the court-yard, from there to outside? And it will be read here, and then there?’
‘It’ll never work,’ Ashok said. ‘You’re asking for confusion.’
Ganesha nudged me and whispered in my ear, and I typed: ‘Ganesha is here (we seek his blessing in our endeavours to attain
wisdom and knowledge).’ I received another nudge, none too gentle, in the ribs (just as Saira squealed, ‘Ganapati baba moriya,
Ganesha is here!’), and so I went on: ‘Ganesha asks if you have a stereo speaker and if you do you should put it on the roof,
never mind about the wires.’
Instructions were sent out to the willing children for this to be done, while I explained to the rest of my family (I think
I can use that word now) what had happened. They looked a
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