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 white kites would hide inside the coconut tree and screech plaintively. Opu would sit close to his mother, pretending to practise his handwriting. But his real focus would always be on the unfolding narrative. After his favourite bits had been read out, he would say, ‘Ma, how about that story? That one about the cow-dung picker?’

‘The cow-dung picker? Which one was the cow-dung pick . . . oh, do you mean the Hori Hoar story? That’s in the Onnodomongol, Baba. Not in this book.’

Then she would put a fresh betel-leaf wrap in her mouth, and begin reciting in tune:

The king said, ‘Listen, oh monk’s son,

I’ll reveal tales of miracles done

Somdutta, king; of the Land by the Sea

Jealous of gods, and of brahmons, was he . . .’

Opu would quickly hold his palm under his mother’s face and say, ‘Ma, a little paan?’

Shorbojoya would take out a bit of chewed betel from her mouth and put it on his palm. ‘This is too bitter,’ she would say, in passing. ‘It must be the cutch. I keep telling your father not to bring this particular type from the market, but he never remembers.’

Then the reading would continue. Opu would stare at the sun-drenched leaves of the lebbeck and wild jasmine outside the window, and slowly lose himself in the stories. Of all the books at home, the Mahabharat was his favourite. And of all the people in the Mahabharat, he had a special soft corner for that once-abandoned child, Korno. That part where Korno’s chariot wheels sink deeper into the mud and Korno tries desperately to pull them out, begging Orjun to be fair and not attack while he’s busy . . . that part filled him with hopelessness and dread every time. As his mother’s reading approached that particular bit, his eyes would brim with tears in anticipation of the tragedy. And when she reached the part where Orjun refuses and kills Korno anyway, those tears would roll down his baby-soft cheeks in genuine sorrow. Not even hugging his mother could stem them then. And yet that was the story he wanted his mother to return to over and over again.

There is a special sort of satisfaction in crying at the misfortunes of storybook people. Even in his young, little-boy heart, Opu recognized that satisfaction. His mother’s afternoon readings were dear to him, precisely because they allowed him to taste the joys and sorrows of life while still nestled in the safety of his own home. He was too young to properly understand most of the travails chronicled in his mother’s books, but his heart swelled in sympathy for each misfortunate character anyway. And despite the tears their tales inevitably brought on, that sorrow was a feeling he savoured and cherished.

Once his mother left to resume her housework, he would walk slowly outdoors and stare at the top of the peepul tree again. At that time of day, the tree-top