THE YEAR’S FIRST summer storm finally broke that evening. The clouds had been gathering all day, but even then, the storm had a hurried feel to it, arriving before it was fully expected. In a moment, the world beyond the Roys’ walls was transformed. The bamboos that spent the rest of the year leaning into their compound were whipped aside, making the house suddenly look far more exposed and vulnerable. In a minute, whistling dust-laden winds began to blow bits of bamboo leaves, hay and jackfruit leaves into their courtyard, making swirling little heaps all over the place. From beyond the walls came the faint but unmistakable sound of fruits dropping to the ground.

‘Opu!’ Durga shouted over the sound of rushing winds. ‘Mangoes! Let’s go!’

She raced out of the house, her brother at her heels.

‘You pick under the Shindurkota trees, I’ll cover the Shonamukhi,’ she called back as they ran.

All around them, branches were being whipped from side to side. Swirling dust severely impaired vision, and sharp-edged bamboo leaves whistling by made staying the course difficult. When the children reached their late uncle’s orchard, the place had become a battleground. Ripe fruits, unripe fruits, twigs, branches . . . everything was being ripped off and hurled around like missiles. Leaves eddied in the winds and flew into their faces. To make things worse, hundreds of soft, spiky dandelions blew into the orchard and began snowing around the mango trees, getting in the way.

And yet Opu ran around in wild excitement, shouting every time he heard a mango fall.

‘Didi! There’s one! There, that’s another—on that side! Let’s get them all!’

Durga was grinning widely. But unlike her brother, she worked silently and efficiently. For all his excitement and dancing about, Opu had only been able to locate two mangoes. Durga, on the other hand, had already picked five or six.

Suddenly, a bubble of human noise broke through the winds. The Mukhujje children were almost upon the Shonamukhi mango tree. The roaring storm had swallowed the sound of their approach, so they saw the trespassers before the trespassers saw them. Shotu’s yell of outrage was the Roy children’s first intimation that they were not alone.

‘Look, everyone! Opu and Dugga Didi are stealing our fruit!’

The siblings looked up, alarmed. Backed up by his band, Shotu advanced swiftly upon Durga.

‘Why are you in our garden, Duggadi? Didn’t Ma warn you never to steal from us again? Get out, or I’ll tell Ma. How many have you stolen already?’

After a forced glimpse into the mango knot in Durga’s sari, he called out to this sister, appalled. ‘Tunu, come see! She’s already taken six of our mangoes!’

‘What does it matter, Shotuda?’ Ranu interjected. ‘There are still so many trees to pick from. Let them pick their mangoes. We’ll pick our own.’

‘These are not their mangoes—these are ours! Plus if she stays here, she’ll take all the best mangoes. Don’t you know what she’s