Imagination or reality, fiction or true story. Everything blends together, and if the characters really existed, if their story is partly true, I freely transcribed what Surya told me in her English as precarious as mine. Have I already posted this on vf? I can't find it. Maybe on the small forum Wapiti created to continue our wild stories that went on for pages and pages and no longer pleased anyone on vf.

No matter.

I heard from Bavani—life is crazy, isn’t it?

That’s why I’m bringing her story back.

I’m settling into the -miscellaneous- section; I like being away from the noise.

When the house is overrun with running feet, laughter, arguments, and music, I go to the barn turned into a honey house. It’s cool, it smells of wax and honey, and among the disorder of hive frames, supers, and stacked jars, I refocus.

Here, in -miscellaneous-, no one rants. I can let my fingers glide over the keyboard in peace.

Alright, enough digressions. At the end of the notebook, I’ll tell you what became of this little girl.

Bavani

“Bavani, stop daydreaming, work.”

I’m not daydreaming, I’m thinking.

My teacher is Surya, and she asked us to write a story. She doesn’t like us—I heard her talking to the teacher in the little kids’ class. She said: I stay here because the white people pay better than in government schools, but it’s a shame to teach gypsies. Filthy street urchins.

I’m not a gypsy, I’m a Narikuravar. Grandmother told me: you’re going to this school, you’ll learn English well, and when you come back, you’ll be richer than the others because you’ll beg better from the tourists. Grandmother makes necklaces and sells them, but often she sells nothing at all.

There are lots of tourists in my town, Tiruvannamalai. Before, I lived behind the temple with dad and mom. We had our spot and were happy, especially when mom cooked rice on the brazier. Then we’d lie down, and I’d press my back against mom’s huge belly, and it would move inside. One day, mom told me: stay here, I’ll be back very soon. I waited a long time, and neither dad nor mom came back. After a long time, dad came, and we went to Salem to my grandmother, who’s dad’s mom.

I asked: where’s mom? “Shut up, two was too many.” “Two what? He didn’t say.”

So I went to Salem to grandmother’s hut, and there was no rice, and Muriga came to get me with his minibus. Now I live here. We eat several times a day—yellow rice, then white rice to digest, and eggs and bananas.

And we have to study.

Papom *

.../...

Papom: in common language, it’s the equivalent of -see ya-