He had borrowed a cell phone from Pogle sahib’s son and made her stand outside their house with Seema’s children under each arm, their little chicken faces staring out from under her wings. Seema’s husband kept telling them to smile, promising them laddoos if they looked snappy-happy, but they just burrowed deeper into Mala’s side, nestling under her hot armpits. Then he began shouting at them for spoiling the photo and wasting the battery, which just made it worse. Mala fumed. Now the bacche have started snivelling, asking for their real mama, who is refusing to watch our filmi-star shoot, just hiding herself away as if she is the guilty one. Maybe she is. If it wasn’t for her, would we all be standing here under the lid of the sun, cooking and crumbling like mah ki daal? So then Mala took charge – someone had to. She pushed a finger into the soft dough covering his ribs – obvious where most of the baby money had gone, straight on to his gut – and told him, ‘Theklo, if you want these kids to look like they belong to me, stop making them piss their pants with fear.
What do You think about The House Of Hidden Mothers?
