Not a single word was exchanged. But in those silent, wounded glances, so much was said. Of kinship. Of loss. Of becoming refugees.

By the simple drawing of a line.

2008

‘Who are we but the stories we tell ourselves,
about ourselves, and believe?’

—Scott Turow, Ordinary Heroes

Of Mice and Men

New Delhi, India

In a neatly scrubbed kitchen, Jai watched intently as his grandmother kneaded dough for tandoori rotis. His love for food and a general aversion to sport had lent a rotundness to him, which when combined with the scraggly beginnings of a fourteen-year-old’s moustache, made him somewhat resemble a smallish walrus, albeit a very observant one especially if cooking was involved.

‘How do we make tandoori rotis without a tandoor, Badi Ma?’ asked Jai.

‘I have a little trick for that,’ said his grandmother enigmatically. ‘Wash your hands. Once the dough is ready, I’ll show you how to roll it out.’

‘You’ve made me wash them thrice already,’ groaned Jai.

But he was not one to argue—it sapped him of energy, and besides, he had figured that nothing much ever came of it. He began to roll up his shirtsleeves to wash his hands for the fourth time when his attention was caught by an incessant scratching sound from behind the wall, slightly to the left of the sink.

‘Badi Ma, what’s that sound?’

‘As round as you can manage—it’s tricky getting the shape of the roti right at first—but it comes with practice,’ replied Badi Ma, as she expertly patted the dough, checking for its perfect consistency.

Jai peered at Badi Ma’s hearing aid. Evidently, the battery had died.

The persistent noise continued from behind the wall. Jai inched towards it cautiously and gingerly put his hand against the wall. At that very moment, through a tiny crack in the plaster, something furry and brown jumped out at him.

Jai uttered a roar of fright and leapt back frantically, overturning the stainless steel urn of atta in the process. Badi Ma shrieked—more from seeing the mess than the mouse.

The mouse, which was by now covered in flour and rather unnerved by all the screaming, scurried along the kitchen counter in search of an exit point.

‘Catch it, Jai!’ urged Badi Ma.

‘What! I’m not going anywhere near it,’ said Jai, magnificently unimpressed by this ridiculous plan.

‘Uff! I can’t be chasing mice at my age, Jai. What if it jumps into the dal and bhindi next?’ grumbled Badi Ma, as she hurriedly covered her pots and pans with lids.

The mouse had now slithered down the kitchen cupboards and was sitting behind the trolley of onions and potatoes, apparently having decided that this was its best strategy under the circumstances.

Badi Ma spotted the mouse and let out a blood-curdling war cry that startled Jai, causing him to leap again, this time overturning the dustbin and spilling its contents. On most days, an overturned dustbin would be a calamity that would have stopped Badi Ma in her tracks. But today, she was on a mission. Badi Ma charged at the mouse, brandishing her rolling pin.