1gQ4hRW

of her sari as she goes about her business. “What do you want,
child” she asks him, running her hand affectionately through his
spiky hair.
“Aeroplane,” he replies promptly.
“Not again! Do you know how big aeroplanes are”
Akash nods several times, eager to show that he knows.
“As big as my forearm,” he says, holding out his hand and pulling
up his sleeve to show his elbows. “And they have huge lights in
the front,” he says, cupping both palms into the size of a bowl in
front of his face. “Smaller lights on the wings.” Now the fingers
are squeezed together and the eyes squinched onto a spot.
His mother breaks into peals of laughter. “Is that so No,
little one, you’re wrong. Aeroplanes are very, very big. As big as
our building. Even bigger. People sit inside them. Can you imagine
that” Akash’s eyes widen and he shakes his head slowly.
“Now what makes you think I can get you something that big”
“Because you’re my Ma, na You are old. You can do
anything,” he replies, puzzled by her question. “And they have
upright tails that don’t move. Not like the fish in the canal,” he
adds belatedly. How could he have been so absent-minded as to
forget that!
His mother looks at the chagrin on his face and laughs
again. “Go and wash your hands. Look how filthy they are! Have
you been climbing up that silly hill again You’re not eating like
that.” And with a pat on his bum he is sent on his way.
Morsels of the most delectable feast will not satisfy the
hunger in his heart. Even so, with great reluctance, Akash sets
off in the direction of the tap, but midway he veers off. Fine. If no
one will get him an aeroplane, he will get one himself. Within
minutes, utterly oblivious to his surroundings and the smell of
food gnawing at his insides, he is absorbed in his game. “Wrroooooooommm,”
his pursed lips whimper softly as deft hands
hold aloft a paper plane and wave it all around the room. Over a
rickety chair, along the occasionally chipped grey expanse of the
old refrigerator’s side, past the open window with its faded and
billowing curtains, under the tail of a neighborhood stray dog
66 Writing Tomorrow Magazine