THERE WAS A large peepul tree a short way away from the Roys’ house. One could only see the top of it if one stood on the raised veranda outside and craned one’s neck. Opu loved staring at the tree-top. The enormous height of the tree, and the mysteries hidden inside the dense canopy made him think of magical, faraway lands. Not that he knew very much about such places; his mother’s stories of exiled princes gave only the briefest sketch of the actual places they took place in, focusing chiefly on the princes’ adventures. But to Opu, this very lack of knowledge enhanced their appeal. He could spend hours just thinking about these mysterious lands, making the details up as he went along.

The idea of distance, in general, enchanted him. Even real places, if they were far enough, seemed to him like hidden gateways to storybook lands. The high blue arch of the skies above, the disappearing speck of a flyaway kite, the misty indigo field he had seen as a child . . . all of it made him think of the nebulous adventures that were happening at that very moment, in lands that lay just beyond the average human’s reach. With a little effort, he could imagine himself as part of those adventures, far away from this mundane village, with no known way of returning home.

And the funny thing was, the fantasies of being away from home actually made him acutely homesick. Even though he knew he hadn’t really gone anywhere—that, in fact, he was still standing in his own courtyard—he desperately wanted to find a path that would connect the lands in his imagination to his village. The thrill of adventure was a fantastic feeling, but it also made him want to cling to his mother. However, since adventures couldn’t be stopped midway, he chose a totem instead to mark time (today, it was a white-chested river kite flying higher and higher into the sky). As long as the totem was visible, he would grit his teeth and allow his imagination to soar, proud that he had enough grit not to abandon an adventure midway. Then, the moment it was out of his sight, he would rush indoors, find his mother, and hug her fiercely.

Usually, these times would coincide with his mother’s busiest housework hours, so she would be in the kitchen, knee-deep in chores.

‘What’s wrong this time?’ she would ask with perfunctory concern, for she was used to his random, unrelenting hugs. ‘Let me go, darling, I have food hands. You’ll have to bathe again if you touch them. Here, see these prawns? I’m frying them for your lunch. You love prawns, don’t you? Go on now, don’t be naughty. Let me get on with my work.’

Sometimes, after lunch, his mother would lie down on the floor next to the window and read aloud from their tattered copy of the Kashidashi Mahabharat. The afternoon sun would blaze outside, and the