tell. The city is as big as Delhi, and yet the street where my granddaughter and her family live is empty in the middle of the afternoon! And at night, Sumati – at night it is so quiet you would not believe! At home, even at the latest hour, there is always some small sound to remind you that you are among other humans on this earth: the rumble of an ox-cart on its way to market, the chatter of late travellers passing by, a little snatch of film-song from the rickshaw wallahs’ camp at the bottom of the road . . .
Kalpana put down her pen and walked to the window, drawing the curtain aside. The street outside lay still and silent; nothing moved except for a large white fluffy cat stealthily crossing the road. As Kalpana watched he leapt onto the gatepost and began to clean himself, then raised his head to stare at her with big round yellow eyes.
‘A cat, ’ said Kalpana, out loud in English. It was the first English word she had really learned, printed in big letters in her little daughter’s first English primer. They’d learned it together, all three of them, she and Sumati and Usha, on the verandah back home, long, so long ago.
Kalpana’s gaze drifted to the big tree in the garden, whose branches spread over the low flat roof of the garage. She’d known the moment she saw the tree that it was the same as the ones she’d seen in her flying dream: it was the same grey silvery colour and had the same long thin pointed leaves. ‘A gum tree, ’ Priya had told her, and in the streets of this suburb there were many gum trees, and somewhere, Kalpana knew, there would be a lake like the one in her dream with a bank of the silvery trees alongside.
Now there was a sound from the street. Faintly, in the distance, she heard a soft rhythmic clicking noise: ticktock, ticktock, ticktock – what could it be? The sound grew louder, the white cat sprang from its post and ran away and there, by the glow of the streetlight, Kalpana saw a tall thin boy sailing past the house, so fast he seemed to fly.
She blinked and rubbed her eyes. When she looked again the boy was gone. Perhaps she’d dreamed him, though as she listened, she could still hear that faint tick-tocking, growing softer and softer until it was swallowed into the thick silence of the foreign night. ‘ Uran khatola , ’ she whispered. And then, more slowly, as she worked the English words out, ‘the – the flying boy!’
I have been having that flying dream again, she wrote on to Sumati. You know, the one you laughed about, where I was flying, faster and faster, but only a simple hand’s height above the ground. But you didn’t laugh, my dear Sumati, when I told you the feeling of my dream: how if I flew fast enough, I would see my dear Raj’s face again; I would see his special smile . . .
Gull Oliver skimmed along the moonlit street, heading back to his home in Delphi Drive.
That had been her house back there: he was certain of it now; he remembered that big gum tree, the way it leaned a little, spreading its branches over the flat roof of the garage. Back at Short Street Primary, Mrs Flannery had made sure all the Grade One kids who’d been chosen as ‘shepherds’ knew the houses where their lambs had lived, ‘Just in case, ’ she’d said.
Nirmolini’s mum had asked him to tea: he remembered the chocolate cake, and Nirmolini sitting beside him at the table, and Mrs Grace asking him about his name, like people often did. They always thought it had to do with birds.
‘It’s Gulliver, really, ’ he’d explained.
‘Gulliver? Like the book?’
He’d nodded. ‘It’s because Mum had me on her travels.’
‘Oh, ’ Mrs Grace had murmured. A bit shocked, Gull thought now, though he hadn’t realised that, back when he was six. And he remembered how Nirmolini, sitting beside him, had said, ‘It’s a good name, Gulliver.’
And all that had been seven whole years ago. Wasn’t seven a magic number? And there was something magical about
Kalpana put down her pen and walked to the window, drawing the curtain aside. The street outside lay still and silent; nothing moved except for a large white fluffy cat stealthily crossing the road. As Kalpana watched he leapt onto the gatepost and began to clean himself, then raised his head to stare at her with big round yellow eyes.
‘A cat, ’ said Kalpana, out loud in English. It was the first English word she had really learned, printed in big letters in her little daughter’s first English primer. They’d learned it together, all three of them, she and Sumati and Usha, on the verandah back home, long, so long ago.
Kalpana’s gaze drifted to the big tree in the garden, whose branches spread over the low flat roof of the garage. She’d known the moment she saw the tree that it was the same as the ones she’d seen in her flying dream: it was the same grey silvery colour and had the same long thin pointed leaves. ‘A gum tree, ’ Priya had told her, and in the streets of this suburb there were many gum trees, and somewhere, Kalpana knew, there would be a lake like the one in her dream with a bank of the silvery trees alongside.
Now there was a sound from the street. Faintly, in the distance, she heard a soft rhythmic clicking noise: ticktock, ticktock, ticktock – what could it be? The sound grew louder, the white cat sprang from its post and ran away and there, by the glow of the streetlight, Kalpana saw a tall thin boy sailing past the house, so fast he seemed to fly.
She blinked and rubbed her eyes. When she looked again the boy was gone. Perhaps she’d dreamed him, though as she listened, she could still hear that faint tick-tocking, growing softer and softer until it was swallowed into the thick silence of the foreign night. ‘ Uran khatola , ’ she whispered. And then, more slowly, as she worked the English words out, ‘the – the flying boy!’
I have been having that flying dream again, she wrote on to Sumati. You know, the one you laughed about, where I was flying, faster and faster, but only a simple hand’s height above the ground. But you didn’t laugh, my dear Sumati, when I told you the feeling of my dream: how if I flew fast enough, I would see my dear Raj’s face again; I would see his special smile . . .
Gull Oliver skimmed along the moonlit street, heading back to his home in Delphi Drive.
That had been her house back there: he was certain of it now; he remembered that big gum tree, the way it leaned a little, spreading its branches over the flat roof of the garage. Back at Short Street Primary, Mrs Flannery had made sure all the Grade One kids who’d been chosen as ‘shepherds’ knew the houses where their lambs had lived, ‘Just in case, ’ she’d said.
Nirmolini’s mum had asked him to tea: he remembered the chocolate cake, and Nirmolini sitting beside him at the table, and Mrs Grace asking him about his name, like people often did. They always thought it had to do with birds.
‘It’s Gulliver, really, ’ he’d explained.
‘Gulliver? Like the book?’
He’d nodded. ‘It’s because Mum had me on her travels.’
‘Oh, ’ Mrs Grace had murmured. A bit shocked, Gull thought now, though he hadn’t realised that, back when he was six. And he remembered how Nirmolini, sitting beside him, had said, ‘It’s a good name, Gulliver.’
And all that had been seven whole years ago. Wasn’t seven a magic number? And there was something magical about
Similar Books
