A Sister's Promise

The cow strains at the rope that tethers it to the post and comes up to them, nudging their faces with its soft wet nose: the slimy feel of fish guts, the earthy tang of manure. The girls laugh, syrup and sweetness, their angst forgotten, dispersed into the evening air that brings cooking smells wafting

My name is Kushi Shankar. I am seventeen years old and a resident of Bhoomihalli village. I am writing this letter to you because, in my opinion, even though you have been elected to represent the people of this state and have pledged to do your best by them, you sometimes forget how they, i.e. we, the common people, live.

with her, still. I am hurt, the hurt having multiplied when I realised that Kushi is Gopi’s child. But I also feel sorry for Puja, for everything she went through all alone, without the bolstering support of us, her family. Now I understand why Puja asked the landlord if she could marry Gopi. It was a desperate act on the part of a floundering girl. Is Kushi Puja’s way of giving me something of Gopi because she stole him from me? I love Kushi like nothing and no one else. It was love at first sight as it was with Puja, Ma, but with none of the jealousy. How could I resent this tiny new life, this helpless minuscule being who had come into my world on the rain ravaged day when I bid adieu to you and Da, a blessing at a time when I had never felt more alone? Whatever her reasons, I am grateful to Puja for the

Raj closes his eyes, and lets the cigarette work its magic. When he opens them again, Ellie is in his line of sight, under the awning by the bus stop, standing slightly apart from the giggly group of girls she hangs out with. Her sunshine coloured hair spills out of its loose ponytail, and her eyelashes fan downy gold-dusted cheeks. Her strawberry lips pucker as she checks her phone and she frowns.

forgive his father that. Before his father left for India, Raj had always nurtured the secret hope that one day he could leave his unfeeling mum and go stay with his dad. But when his dad emigrated, that

Touch-me-nots, their blooms, the soft, sugar-embroidered pink of a happy ending, shrink from the kiss of grumbling yellow bees. Butterflies coyly flutter their emerald-tipped silver wings as if dispensing benedictions from a benevolent god. High up in the coconut trees, the crows squabble and gossip.