The cities are large and memorably crowded in India,but when you leave them you travel through vast stretchesof country where hardly a soul is to be seen. I rememberwondering where 950 million Indians could be hiding.
I could say the same of his house.
I'm a little early. I've just set foot on the cement steps ofthe front porch when a teenager bursts out the front door.
He's wearing a baseball uniform and carrying baseballequipment, and he's in a hurry. When he sees me he stopsdead in his tracks, startled. He turns around and hollersinto the house, "Dad! The writer's here." To me he says,"Hi," and rushes off.
His father comes to the front door. "Hello," he says.
"That was your son?" I ask, incredulous.
"Yes." To acknowledge the fact brings a smile to his lips.
"I'm sorry you didn't meet properly. He's late for practice.
His name is Nikhil. He goes by Nick."I'm in the entrance hall. "I didn't know you had a son,"I say. There's a barking. A small mongrel mutt, black andbrown, races up to me, panting and sniffing. He jumps upagainst my legs. "Or a dog," I add.
"He's friendly. Tata, down!"Tata ignores him. I hear "Hello." Only this greeting isnot short and forceful like Nick's. It's a long, nasal andsoftly whining Hellooooooooo, with the ooooooooo reachingfor me like a tap on the shoulder or a gentle tug at mypants.
I turn. Leaning against the sofa in the living room,looking up at me bashfully, is a little brown girl, pretty inpink, very much at home. She's holding an orange cat inher arms. Two front legs sticking straight up and a deeplysunk head are all that is visible of it above her crossedarms. The rest of the cat is hanging all the way down tothe floor. The animal seems quite relaxed about beinystretched on the rack in this manner.
"And this is your daughter," I say.
"Yes. Usha. Usha darling, are you sure Moccasin iscomfortable like that?"Usha drops Moccasin. He flops to the floor unperturbed.
"Hello, Usha," I say.
She comes up to her father and peeks at me from behindhis leg.
"What are you doing, little one?" he says. "Why are youhiding?"She doesn't reply, only looks at me with a smile andhides her face.
"How old are you, Usha?" I ask.
She doesn't reply.
Then Piscine Molitor Patel, known to all as Pi Patel,bends down and picks up his daughter.
"You know the answer to that question. Hmmm? You'refour years old. One, two, three, four."At each number he softly presses the tip of her nose withhis index finger. She finds this terribly funny. She gigglesand buries her face in the crook of his neck.
This story has a happy ending.
I could say the same of his house.
I'm a little early. I've just set foot on the cement steps ofthe front porch when a teenager bursts out the front door.
He's wearing a baseball uniform and carrying baseballequipment, and he's in a hurry. When he sees me he stopsdead in his tracks, startled. He turns around and hollersinto the house, "Dad! The writer's here." To me he says,"Hi," and rushes off.
His father comes to the front door. "Hello," he says.
"That was your son?" I ask, incredulous.
"Yes." To acknowledge the fact brings a smile to his lips.
"I'm sorry you didn't meet properly. He's late for practice.
His name is Nikhil. He goes by Nick."I'm in the entrance hall. "I didn't know you had a son,"I say. There's a barking. A small mongrel mutt, black andbrown, races up to me, panting and sniffing. He jumps upagainst my legs. "Or a dog," I add.
"He's friendly. Tata, down!"Tata ignores him. I hear "Hello." Only this greeting isnot short and forceful like Nick's. It's a long, nasal andsoftly whining Hellooooooooo, with the ooooooooo reachingfor me like a tap on the shoulder or a gentle tug at mypants.
I turn. Leaning against the sofa in the living room,looking up at me bashfully, is a little brown girl, pretty inpink, very much at home. She's holding an orange cat inher arms. Two front legs sticking straight up and a deeplysunk head are all that is visible of it above her crossedarms. The rest of the cat is hanging all the way down tothe floor. The animal seems quite relaxed about beinystretched on the rack in this manner.
"And this is your daughter," I say.
"Yes. Usha. Usha darling, are you sure Moccasin iscomfortable like that?"Usha drops Moccasin. He flops to the floor unperturbed.
"Hello, Usha," I say.
She comes up to her father and peeks at me from behindhis leg.
"What are you doing, little one?" he says. "Why are youhiding?"She doesn't reply, only looks at me with a smile andhides her face.
"How old are you, Usha?" I ask.
She doesn't reply.
Then Piscine Molitor Patel, known to all as Pi Patel,bends down and picks up his daughter.
"You know the answer to that question. Hmmm? You'refour years old. One, two, three, four."At each number he softly presses the tip of her nose withhis index finger. She finds this terribly funny. She gigglesand buries her face in the crook of his neck.
This story has a happy ending.