Still said, ‘You are a stupid child! But, baby, where could you find a net big enough to catch the moon with?’

I said, ‘Surely you could catch it with your hands.’

But dada laughed and said, ‘You are the silliest child I have known. If it came nearer, you would see how big the moon is.’

I said, ‘Dada, what nonsense they teach at your school! When mother bends her face down to kiss us does her face look very big?’

But still dada says, ‘You are a stupid child.’

clouds and waves

Mother, the folk who live up in the clouds call out to me—

‘We play from the time we wake till the day ends.

We play with the golden dawn, we play with the silver moon.’

I ask, ‘But, how am I to get up to you?’ They answer, ‘Come to the edge of the earth, lift up your hands to the sky, and you will be taken up into the clouds.’

‘My mother is waiting for me at home,’ I say. ‘How can I leave her and come?’

Then they smile and float away.

But I know a nicer game than that, mother.

I shall be the cloud and you the moon.

I shall cover you with both my hands, and our house-top will be the blue sky.

The folk who live in the waves call out to me—

‘We sing from morning till night; on and on we travel and know not where we pass.’

I ask, ‘But, how am I to join you?’ They tell me, ‘Come to the edge of the shore and stand with your eyes tight shut, and you will be carried out upon the waves.’

I say, ‘My mother always wants me at home in the evening—how can I leave her and go?’

Then they smile, dance and pass by.

But I know a better game than that.

I will be the waves and you will be a strange shore.

I shall roll on and on and on, and break upon your lap with laughter.

And no one in the world will know where we both are.

the champa flower

Supposing I became a champa flower, just for fun, and grew on a branch high up that tree, and shook in the wind with laughter and danced upon the newly budded leaves, would you know me, mother?

You would call, ‘Baby, where are you?’ and I should laugh to myself and keep quite quiet.

I should slyly open my petals and watch you at your work.

When after your bath, with wet hair spread on your shoulders, you walked through the shadow of the champa tree to the little court where you say your prayers, you would notice the scent of the flower, but not know that it came from me.

When after the midday meal you sat at the window reading Ramayana, and the tree’s shadow fell over your hair and your lap, I should fling my wee little shadow on to the page of your book, just where you were reading.