I know that life is hard but as my late lamented father Poori used to say,

The fun is in finding a clean river to shit in.

May you find your river, my darling!

Happy 46th! Chooti Hooti Hay!

With love and kisses from your sad old maiden aunt,

Chitrajeet

To her pleasant surprise, Kate returned with a note, written on rough, recycled paper. She left it on the fridge door for her mother to find, under a Hamburglar magnet:

Dear Gurmit,

I hope this finds you well. Thank you for the generous bag of rice. I heard you have sprained your back in an unfortunate mango-picking accident, and I hope that your injuries are healing quickly. I have been enjoying the rose water and aromatic lime chutney that I almost sent to you for your speedy recovery.

I know that as childhood buddies we have been through many ups and many downs. We have both won and lost many a game of cricket. Sometimes my lassi is sweeter than yours, but your achar is still the best even if I will never admit this to your face.

Someday, after the next monsoon, we will talk about bigger things. We will build a tidbits shop to rival that of Mr. Ali and his wife, Mrs. Ali. They are nobodies. They are brigands. They sell moldy popadams. We will do better than that.

Until then, let us dream of banana trees and hammocks. One day we will both have bungalows in the shade. They will be pink and they will be wide. Monkeys will run from us. But listen to me, Babu, you must never forget your secret powers. Do not forget, in your haste to become a world champion mango-picker, to use your special powers. Only one or two people in the whole of our beautiful province are able to mimic the cry of horses as well as you. You are the Neigh King.

When you neigh, I will come. I swear it on your turban.

Take care of the little pooris, and of yourself,

Your Test Match partner,

Apu

Meanwhile, Kate went on being a teenager of few words, eating dinner in front of the TV, slinking sullenly into her room, giving no indication that she’d actually composed that note. It was an infuriating charade. Mary-Sue folded the letter carefully and put it in the steel safe where she kept all her important documents. Then she left another little note on Kate’s pillow, crossing her fingers and toes that this new level of communication could be sustained:

My dearest Sunil,

Your note was duly noted and highly appreciated. Perhaps we could continue our discourse over lassi and tidbits at a restaurant, and speak of our plans for the future? It will be my greatest privilege to host this dinner.

Your humble confidante,

Jalil of Jalalabad

A reply appeared on the fridge the next morning:

Vishnu,

Don’t push it.

Your very distant cousin,

Kali