Teatime for the Firefly by Shona Patel Page B

Dadamoshai. She found him writing peacefully at his desk on the veranda.
    Dadamoshai was the appointed mediator of squabbles. Unlike Mima, who would have either smacked or hugged us, depending on her mood, Dadamoshai listened to both sides and was always judicious.
    In between angry sobs, Moon told him that her baby crow had died because of my bad luck.
    Dadamoshai pushed up the glasses on his forehead and rubbed his eyes wearily.
    “What is bad luck?” he asked innocently.
    “When somebody dies because of somebody else.”
    “Explain to me, please. I am too old to understand,” said Dadamoshai, looking round-eyed and befuddled. I was incredulous. Did he not know what bad luck was? Why, he sounded like a numskull.
    Moon puffed with importance. She stood stoutly with her hands on her waist, looking like a mini Mima herself. “See, Layla is bad luck—everybody knows that, right?”
    “Really?” Dadamoshai looked astounded, as if she had just told him the chicken had laid a square egg.
    “Yes, yes.” Moon shook her curls. She was getting tired of our grandfather’s feeblemindedness. “Layla is very bad luck. Maximum bad luck,” she added for emphasis. Moon’s new favorite word was maximum . “Her father died because of her, her mother died because of her—let me see...who else? Oh, and now the baby crow died because of her. So see?”
    “Whose baby crow died because of whom?” Dadamoshai asked.
    “Mine, because of her.”
    “But if she was the bad luck, would not her baby crow die instead of yours?”
    Moon looked confused.
    “Am I bad luck?” Dadamoshai asked her, looking timid and fearful, as though something was going to bite him.
    “Ufff-ho! No, no, why should you be bad luck?” Moon retorted irritably. “Her! Her! She! ” She pointed an accusing finger as I cowered behind Dadamoshai’s chair, feeling like a lowly insect. But Dadamoshai did not turn around to look at me.
    “Oh dear, oh dear,” Dadamoshai lamented sadly, shaking his head, “I think I am very bad luck, too. My wife died, you know, very young, and my daughter. My father died, too, and my mother died...a cat, also, some chickens, and so many cockroaches I can’t even count. But sometimes my clogs have a mind of their own and do very bad things.”
    “Oh-ho, Dadamoshai! You are confusing anything with everything! Making a big kheechoori . Don’t worry—you are not bad luck. Layla is different.”
    “How? I don’t understand.”
    Moon sighed noisily. “Dadamoshai, you are too old. You don’t understand anything anymore,” she said and stuck out her lower lip, glowering at the floor.
    “Okay, come here, you two,” Dadamoshai said, suddenly very alert and businesslike. He capped his pen with a smart click and closed his journal. He motioned us over to the sofa and scooped the sleeping cat off with the newspaper. “Sit down. I want to show you something.” He was tossing around a heavy glass paperweight in his hand. It had blue swirls and glass bubbles suspended inside. “See this paperweight?” he said. He held it up to the light with his thumb and forefinger. We could see the palm trees and sky through it. He positioned his hand above the coffee table and looked as if he was about to drop the paperweight on the glass.
    “If I drop this and break the glass, is it good luck or bad luck?”
    “Bad luck,” we said in unison.
    “If I drop the paperweight, but catch it with the other hand before it breaks the glass, is it good luck or bad luck?” While he waited for our answer, Dadamoshai dropped the glass ball, which he caught expertly with his other hand, an inch before it hit the table. We gasped.
    “Good luck or bad luck?” he repeated, looking at us both. His eyes were bright like a chipmunk as he tossed the orb around in his hand.
    Moon and I looked at each other. “Good luck,” we agreed. “Because nothing got broke, thank God,” Moon added, crossing her heart. I followed suit. That was the new thing we had