Deep in his troubled thoughts, Anand almost bumped into a group of children who were standing at the corner, waiting for the school bus. He tried not to stare hungrily at their neat, starched uniforms and polished shoes, and the casual way they swung their brightly coloured satchels. But he couldn’t help it. He wanted to be like them – and knew so well that it was out of his reach.

As he passed them, one of the boys pointed at him and whispered something to the girl standing next to him. She wrinkled her nose – as though I were a bad smell, Anand thought – and then they both burst out laughing. Anand’s ears burned. They were laughing at him – at this dirty shirt with a button missing and his frayed pants and his too-long hair. He felt a sting of shame, and then anger. Not, it was envy he felt. Because if there was one other thing he longed for, it was to be able to go to school again.

He remembered the day, almost a year earlier, when he’s awakened to the sound of his mother sobbing. This was unusual because she rarely wept. His heart sinking, he’d walked across the floor of the shack to where she sat with her head in her hands on the sleeping mat – they’d sold what little furniture they’d possessed by then – and even before she’d said a word, he’d known what was coming. She didn’t have the money for the children’s school fees any more.

Meera, being younger, had not minded much. She had thought it was kind of fun to be able to stay home and play all day. But Anand still remembered the pain he felt as he put his beloved books away in a corner. (They’d have to sell them back to Sengupta’s Used Books a few months later.) He folded away his school uniforms – the two pairs of white shorts and the blue shirts with the logo that said HINDU BOYS ACADEMY embroided on their pockets – which he took such pride in, washing them himself every day to make sure they were spotless. (Those, too, would have to be sold). But he was careful not to let his mother see how unhappy he was. She had so many troubles already. He didn’t want to add to them. He had put on a pair of stained old khaki pants and his checkered shirt that was too tight under the arms and trudged over to Haru’s tea stall. He’d overheard a neighbour who lived down the street say that Haru was looking for a boy to help him because the one who’d been working for him had run away.

“And no wonder!” the neighbour had added, cackling cruelly.

Anand soon learned what he had meant. But he also knew he was lucky to find a job at all. Times were bad, and many grown men had no work. They were forced to beg on street corners – or worse, turn to thievery and violence. Anand hated Haru’s blistering tongue and ever-ready fists. But when things got really bad, he would think about the look on his mother’s face at the end of each week when he ran home and gave her whatever he had earned.

“My dear, good boy!” she’d say as she hugged him, a rare smile lighting up her face and making her seem years younger. “I couldn’t have managed without your help! I’m so lucky to have a son like you.”

Briefly, he would be happy. Briefly, it would make up for the things he’d lost. But it didn’t make it easy to face the rest of the week – especially moments like this one.

With the children’s laughter echoing in his ears, he closed his eyes tightly and clenched his fists. I want my life to change, he said fiercely inside his head, holding his breath until he grew dizzy, putting all his strength into the wish and launching it from him the way an archer sends forth an arrow. He could feel it speed across the sky, hot and bright, until it connected with something – or someone. The sense of contact was so strong that Anand’s body jerked backward from the impact. He opened his eyes, expecting to see this something. He didn’t know what shape it would take, but surely it would be wondrous and radiant and magical. But all that lay in front of him was the familiar stretch of dirty pavement with rotting garbage piled along the gutter.

“You, boy!” Haru shouted as soon as he caught sight of Anand. “What took you so long? Loafing on the street corner, were you? I should give you a whack on your head. Can’t you see there’s customers waiting?”

Anand hurried over to the tables to ask people what they wanted to have. Most only ordered tea. A couple of clerks on their way to the office ordered sweets to take with them. Two college students – a young man and his girlfriend, Anand guessed – asked for a plate of pooris and alu dum. Anand’s stomach growled, embarrassing him terribly, as he brought over the puffed friend bread and spicy potatoes, and the young woman gave him a curious look.

That was when he noticed the old man.

At first Anand thought that perhaps he was a beggar. He stood at the entrance of the tea stall, wrapped in a dirty which cotton shawl and carrying a walking stick made of cheap bamboo. A ragged cloth bag hung from his shoulder. He had matted grey hair and and a straggly beard, and even on this cold day, his feet were bare. But unlike the other beggars, he didn’t gaze longingly at the glass cases filled with sweets. Instead – but surely Anand was mistaken – he seemed to be staring at Anand.

Haru, too, had noticed the old man.

“You there,” he yelled. “What do you want? And, more importantly, do you have the money for it?” The old man said nothing. “I didn’t think so!” Haru said, his mouth twisting. “In that case, get out of the way of my paying customers.”

The man stood there as though he hadn’t even heart Haru, for a moment Anand wondered if he was a bit soft in the head, like Meera had become after what happened to her. He felt a stab of sympathy for him.

“Out! Out!” Haru yelled more loudly. “Do you think I’ve opened a poorhouse here? Useless beggar! Boy, kick him out of the stall!”

Anand went over to the old man and took him gently by the arm. How light his arm felt, as though he had feathers instead of bones! He was surprised by how warm the man’s arm was. He’d expected the old man to be shivering, like himself, standing as he was in the wind, which was stronger now, swirling dust and torn newspapers along the street.

“Come on, grandfather,” he said gently, “you’d better go home before he insults you further.”

The old man did not protest. He followed docilely enough as Anand led him to the street corner. Did he even have a home? Anand wondered. He was surprised at how concerned he felt about leaving the old man by himself. It was almost as though he were abandoning him. Which was ridiculous, considering that Anand hadn’t even set eyes on him until a few minutes earlier.

Just as Anand let go of his arm, the old man looked at him. His eyes were . . . blue? green? shimmery brown like the eyes of a tiger? Anand couldn’t tell. He knew only that something tingled through him like an electric current when the old man looked at him.

“Wait here,” Anand said impulsively. Then he ran back to the stall.

“Can I please take my tea break a little early today?” he asked Haru, in the small, scared voice the stall owner liked him to use.

Haru frowned. “What’s the matter?” he said nastily. “Your mother didn’t give you any breakfast?”

Anand swallowed his anger and stood with his head lowered.

“I guess you can go,” Haru finally said, grumpily. “Seeing as there are no customers right now. But be sure to be back in ten minutes—or I’ll cut your pay.”

Anand nodded, poured himself a glass of tea, wrapped a few stale pooris in a torn newspaper, and left before Haru changed his mind.

He was afraid that the old man might have wandered off. But no, he was waiting exactly where Anand had left him. He seemed not to have moved at all—as though he were a statue. Or perhaps he just didn’t have any place to go, Anand thought with a little catch in his heart.

“Here,” he said with a smile, handing the man the tea and slipping the pooris into the bag he was carrying. “Drink this. It’s nice and hot, and it’ll make you feel better. Mean as he is, Haru does make a good cup of tea. You can eat the pooris later.” He took the man’s hand and closed his fingers around the glass. “I don’t mean to rush you, but I’ve got only a few minutes. Then I have to go back, or Haru really will cut my pay. And I just can’t afford that.”

The old man raised the glass in a strong smooth motion that surprised Anand and drank till it was empty.

“You gave me your own food and drink,” he said. “For that I thank you.” His voice was deep and gravelly, as though it came from the bottom of the river, and he spoke the Bengali words with a slight accent, as though he had come from elsewhere. He made a small sign in the air above Anand ‘s head, a gesture the boy had never seen before. Then he turned and, moving unexpectedly fast, disappeared around a corner.

Anand walked back to the stall musing. Mother was right, he thought. Sharing what you have with others really makes you feel good. What else could account for the warmth that suddenly flooded him, or the fact that he wasn’t hungry at all, although – as Haru had guessed – there hadn’t been anything to eat at home that morning.

• dirty shirt with a button missing (paragraph 2)
• walked across the floor of the shack (paragraph 3)
• swirling dust and torn newspapers along the street (paragraph 18)
• wrapped a few stale pooris in a torn newspaper (paragraph 27)

• The old man raised the glass in a strong smooth motion that surprised Anand . . . (paragraph 30)
• He made a small sign in the air above Anand’s head, . . . (paragraph 31)
• . . . he turned and, moving unexpectedly fast, disappeared . . . (paragraph 31)
• What else could account for the warmth . . . (paragraph 32)