LITMIR.BIZ

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headache and I am going to lie down for a while. And yes, feed my Layla, too. Mind you don’t skimp on the ghee. She’s growing and needs a lot of nourishment.”

      “Yes, Mother,” said Tara obediently, her eyes lowered, a storm of emotions raging inside her. Suraj and she were growing too, yet Kali starved them at every opportunity and took great pleasure in it.

      Kali turned and walked away to the front of the hut and lay down on her cot with an audible sigh. Tara sat fuming, her hands clenched, wishing she had the strength to fight back. You’re a coward, said the voice inside her. I know, she sighed.

      Tara poked the ashes in the three-sided, raised, earthen platform that served as their stove. She struck a match to light the thin twigs and as they caught fire, she blew on them, adding a few dung cakes. Soon, a strong fire crackled, spreading a warm, earthy smell throughout the hut. Tara put a shiny steel vessel on top of the platform to boil water for tea. She kneaded cream-coloured wheat flour with salt and water to make dough. While she prepared tea, her father entered the kitchen and sat cross-legged in front of her. His eyes had a vacant look.

      “How are you today, Tara?” he asked.

      “I am fine, Father,” she said, pouring tea into four glasses lined up in front of her. “I’ll give Mother her tea and be back to make your chappatis.”

      She walked to the front room with the tea and put it by her mother’s cot.

      “Would you like something to eat?”

      “Go away and don’t disturb me,” snapped Kali.

      Tara was only too happy to get away from her. She went back to the kitchen, put a flat skillet on the fire, and drizzled a spoonful of ghee. The clarified butter spluttered and sizzled, sending out a mouth-watering aroma that made Tara’s stomach ache with hunger. She rolled out the dough into a perfect round on a floured wooden board with a long, wooden rolling pin. She flipped the uncooked chappati onto the palm of her right hand and in one fluid movement transferred it to the skillet.

      As the first chappati puffed up, a huge golden ball filled with steam, she had to use all her willpower to stop from grabbing and stuffing it into her mouth. She took a huge gulp of the tea to quell her hunger pangs and immediately blinked in pain as the hot tea scorched a trail down her throat. Her heat-hardened hands did not need tongs to flip the chappati. When it was ready, she deftly pinched its edge and transferred the golden-brown sphere to her father’s steel plate, where he had already put a dab of pickles and an onion. It subsided into a flat round as the steam escaped. She started making the second one just as Suraj walked in, balancing the earthen pot on his head. He looked tired, and the day had just begun. He put the earthen pot by the door and bounded to her side.

      “Make me one too, Didi. I am so hungry,” he said, smacking his lips.

      “Sit down,” she said.

      She placed a glass of tea in front of him and wordlessly looked at her father, asking permission to serve Suraj the next chappati. Her father nodded.

      He looked so cold and aloof. She yearned for the love that she used to see in his eyes when their mother had been around. Had he forgotten that they were his children? Did he not love them anymore?

      Where have you gone, Father? Who is this stranger in front of me? I don’t know you at all, thought Tara as she continued making chappatis and dropping them into her father’s and Suraj’s plates alternately.

      “I am HUNGRY. Give me some food,” demanded Layla, flouncing into the room, her fat cheeks jiggling.

      She sat down with a thump next to Suraj and eyed his plate hungrily.

      Shiv stood up and announced that he was off to the fields. In a moment, he had disappeared.

      Tara continued cooking, knowing that a few extra chappatis would be needed for their lunch.

      “That’s mine,” whined Suraj.

      Tara looked up. Layla had stuffed a bit of Suraj’s chappati in her mouth and was chewing furiously.

      “You greedy pig,” whispered Tara glaring at Layla. “I’m not going to give you any more.”

      Layla was Kali’s daughter from a previous marriage. Being an only child, she had been pampered and spoilt. Her only hobby was eating and, at seven years old, she resembled a baby buffalo, with a temperament to match.

      Layla immediately burst into tears, an art she had perfected over time. She opened her mouth and bawled.

      “MOTHER! Tara is not giving me any food.”

      Kali descended on them like a thundercloud. She seized Suraj by the ear and dragged him out of the kitchen. His eyes tearing with pain, Suraj followed her meekly. Kali then turned on Tara and pushed her out of the kitchen with a violent shove.

      “OUT! Get out. You should be ashamed of yourself, starving your little sister.”

      “But she ...,” started Tara. “Shut up,” snarled Kali. “Not another word out of either of you. Get out of my sight.”

      Smarting at the injustice, Tara and Suraj walked out into the weak November sunshine to do their numerous chores. She had gone hungry yet again and Suraj had eaten but two or three morsels of food. Not enough for a growing boy. How would they survive at this rate?

      She had to weed and water the tiny vegetable patch in the front of their house, which gave them a meagre supply of tomatoes, beans, and okra — invaluable when food was scarce due to drought. Suraj had to scrub the soot-encrusted vessels with coconut husk. Before he went, he hugged Tara.

      “Don’t look so sad, Didi. Are you hungry? Shall I steal some food for you?”

      Tara shook her head, too choked to speak. Suraj saw her expression and hugged her even tighter.

      “Ask me a riddle, Didi. Come on; let’s see if I can guess the answer.”

      “Suraj, I’m all right, really.”

      “Please, Didi. It’s been ages since you asked me a riddle.”

      Tara gave a weak smile at the obvious effort that Suraj was making to cheer her up. He knew she loved riddles. Parvati and she used to have competitions all the time, and they kept a tally of who would solve the most riddles in the shortest time.

      “Okay, Suraj. Now think carefully, because this is an easy one. Ready?”

      Suraj nodded.

       “It goes in green

       White stones grind it

       It comes out red

       In a stream ... mind it!”

      Suraj screwed up his face in mock concentration and Tara’s eyes sparkled.

      “Come on, Suraj, it’s easy,” she teased.

      Kali came to the back door and bellowed, “You two are still here? Did I not tell you to get on with your work?”

      She spat a bright red stream of betel nut juice in a corner near the door, swivelled on her heel, and went in. Tara looked at the juice and looked at Suraj, her eyes dancing.

      “Paan,” sang out Suraj, referring to the betel nut juice that Kali had just spat out.

      Tara tousled his hair.

      “You’re lucky that witch came out when she did, or you’d never have guessed.”

      Suraj smiled and skipped off to do his chores. Tara turned to her task, her anger not yet forgotten. Why, Lord Ganesh? Why are you letting this happen to us?

      She could handle the abuse that Kali put them through, but her heart went out to her little brother. Day by torturous day she could see his animated spirit being subdued by this spiteful woman. His laughter was less frequent, his silent spells longer.

      We have to escape,

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