She liked the way a ray of mild autumn sun infiltrating the thick cluster of trees caught a reddish orange leaf swirling in the wind and transformed it golden yellow. She liked that it wasn’t a leaf she recognised, that she could name or associate with her past.

Where are the coconut trees bowing allegiance to the wind, the wide open spaces, the verdant green fields?

But he’s an untouchable, Shirin.’ ‘He’s my Untouchable Prince Charming, then. Only I am allowed to touch him.

There’s a great drought in my village. People are dying. The price of rice and pulses has rocketed. There is no water anywhere. And here, people are complaining about the rain...

What am I doing here, Reena? Why am I dancing to the tunes of that old hag?’‘You are saving your family.

Have you been reading those books that clueless illiterate Duja in charge of the lending library lets you borrow?’ ‘No, Ma.’ ‘Then what put you in mind of devils possessing nuns to take over the church?

You are a girl, Shirin. Girls don’t run around naked.’‘Why?’‘They just don’t.

Sometimes, it is easier to leave things as they are, rather than to fight, go against the flow.

You don’t live in luxury! You are relegated to sleep in the little store room behind the kitchen with the cockroaches and rats and are at the mercy of Mrs. Gupta,’ Reena was indignant. ‘It’s five-star accommodation compared to a mud hut.

What wouldn’t my people give for a few bites of the biryani she ordered me to throw away yesterday because she said it smelt?

I watched the rows and rows of chappals left by devotees outside the Hindu temple and wondered if the homeless boys who sometimes steal our chickens ever steal them, and if they do, are they punished, and if so by whom?

Every family has secrets, Reena, and they’re there for a reason.

I wash the clothes, rinse them and then scrub them again. Will that square little box do that? I am not using any fancy machines when my hands will do.

You put cow dung on my face?’ ‘Every day religiously until you were three. Why else do you think your skin is so clear?

What better hiding place than an old, woodlice-ridden album of photographs!