Unknown

Anil

RIDJAL NOOR

On a hot, sweltering night in the middle of March when the mosquitoes were in their reign of terrorism, there was a little village where the villagers kept to themselves in little huts, sleeping deeply and dreaming their dreams that rarely amounted to anything. Probably a new cow for Kuppusamy, the milkman, or a profitable harvest

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for the farmers, or a new sewing machine for Rajgopal, the tailor. Housewives dreamed of tomorrow’s cooking and the children dreamed of waking up to another day, and the next, and the next, till it was over as soon as it began. Meanwhile the streets were pitch dark, with no lighting and with the sounds of crickets crying out to each other. As the village slept the night away, a little boy in one of the huts was

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wide awake. Anil lay awake on his mat, his eyes transfixed on the thatched roof of the hut where there were many holes in the ceiling. So many that they had to put pots under the various holes every time it rained. But tonight he could only make out one hole, because through it, a small star shone down upon him. Anil was seven years old, the only son of Ragunathan, the village headman’s servant. His mother worked for the headman, too. In a few years, he would also be working for the headman, though he had no knowledge of this. For now, he found the star fascinating. His parents would not even stop for a second to gape at a star. But he did. Because he believed in the magical wonders of life. Because his dreams

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were bigger than him. Beside him, on another mat spread on the dusty floor, slept his mother. She wore a faded sari, one of the four that she owned, each as faded as the other. The sari she now wore used to be bright green, but had faded to a muddy green, and there was a small hole on the shoulder of the blouse. There was a wet patch around her armpit

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and layers of fat protruded from the bared midriff. Her skin was encased in sweat and a fly hovered around it. Wheee,...