"My cousin Shantu's taxi," he said, grinning. "Was driving, yes, but now my other cousin, Prakash, he is driving, while I am taking it my two hours of lunch breaks. I was at Johnny Cigar, his house, when some people came there with Miss Karla. She wants to see you, and I came here. It is very good, yes?"
"It's good, Prabu," I sighed.
Satish returned, carrying a tray with three cups of hot, sweet tea. He handed them to us, and tore open a small packet containing four Parle Gluco biscuits, which he presented to us with a solemn sense of ceremony. I expected him to eat the fourth biscuit himself, but he placed it on his palm instead, marked it off into even sections with his grubby thumb nail, and then broke it into two pieces. Measuring the fragments against one another, he picked the one that was minutely larger and handed it to Karla. The other went to his baby cousin, who sat in the doorway of the hut and nibbled at the biscuit happily.
I was sitting on the straight-backed chair, and Satish came over to squat on the floor beside my feet. He rested his shoulder against my knee. I was big enough to know that the rare show of affection was a breakthrough with Satish. At the same time I was small enough to hope that Karla had noticed it, and was impressed by it.
We finished the tea, and Satish gathered the empty cups, leaving the hut without a word. At the door, he gave Karla a long-lashed, lingering smile as he took his cousin's hand to lead her away.
"He's a nice kid," she remarked.
"He is. My next-door neighbour's son. You really sparked something in him today. He's normally very shy. So, what brings you to my humble home, anyway?"
"Oh, I just happened to be in the area," she said nonchalantly, looking at the gaps in my wall, where a dozen little faces stared in at us. The voices of other children could be heard, questioning Satish about her. Who is she? Is she Linbaba's wife?
"Passing by, huh? It couldn't be, maybe, that you missed me, just a little bit?"
"Hey don't push your luck," she mocked.
"I can't help it. It's a genetic thing. I come from a long line of luck-pushers. Don't take it personally."
"I take everything personally-that's what being a person is all about. And I'll take you to lunch, if you're finished with your patients."
"Well, I have a lunch date, actually-"
"Oh. Okay, then-"
"No, no. You're welcome to come, if you like. It's kind of an open invitation. We're having a celebration lunch today, right here. I'd be very happy if you'd... be our guest. I think you'll like it. Tell her she'll like it, Prabu."
"We will have it a very nice lunches!" Prabaker said. "My good self, I have kept it a complete empty stomach for filling up to fat. So good is the food. You will enjoy so much, the people will think you are having a baby inside your dress."
"Okay," she said slowly, and then looked at me. "He's a persuasive guy, your Prabaker."
"You should meet his father," I replied, shaking my head in a resigned shrug.
Prabaker's chest swelled with pride, and he wagged his head happily. "So, where are we going?"
"It's at the Village in the Sky," I told her.
"I don't think I've heard of it," she said, frowning.
Prabaker and I laughed, and the vaguely suspicious furrows in her brow deepened.
"No, you won't have heard of it, but I think you'll like it.
Listen, you go on ahead with Prabaker. I'll wash up, and change my shirt. I'll just be a couple of minutes, okay?"
"Fine," she said.
Our eyes met, and held. For some reason, she lingered, watching me expectantly. I couldn't understand the expression, and I was still trying to read it when she stepped close to me and quickly kissed my lips. It was a friendly kiss, impulsive and generous and light-hearted, but I let myself believe that it was more. She walked out with Prabaker, and I spun around on one foot, whispering a shout of joy while I did an excited little dance. I looked up to see the children peering through the holes in the hut and giggling at me. I made a scary face at them, and they laughed harder, breaking into little whirling parodies of my dance. Two minutes later, I loped through the slum lanes after Prabaker and Karla, tucking my clean shirt into my pants as I ran, and shaking the water from my hair.
Our slum, like many others in Bombay, came into being to serve the needs of a construction site-two thirty-five-floor buildings, the World Trade Centre towers, being built on the shore of the Colaba Back Bay. The tradesmen, artisans, and labourers who built the towers were housed in hutments, tiny slum-dwellings, on land adjacent to the site. The companies that planned and constructed large buildings, in those years, were forced to provide such land for housing. Many of the tradesmen were itinerant workers who followed where their skills were needed, and whose real homes were hundreds of kilometres away in other states. Most of the workers who were native to Bombay simply had no homes, other than those they found with their jobs.
