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Priti J. Mehta


“Aai, aai,” said 6 year old Rohit, “I want very sweet kheer with lots of sugar in it.” He sat on the cool, black granite of the kitchen platform in Mrs. Joshi’s fourth floor one room apartment box in Borivali, swinging his little dangling legs excitedly. The old Hindi song Rim Zim Gire Sawaan played on the Philips transistor radio in the background, interrupted by bouts of static as a fine mist blew in through the mesh screened window. It was July. The rains in Mumbai were well in their yearly fury, leaving an amoeba-like damp stain upon the faded yellow paint.  Mrs. Joshi smiled and ruffled his curly hair, humming along with the radio. She marvelled at the excitement in his eyes. “His father’s eyes,” she thought fondly, turning her attention back to the kheer simmering gently upon the stove, filling the apartment with a warm sweet aroma. She…