How he would cling to my tattered mundu, scared of the demons; how he would laugh at the pranks of the animals that talked with Gods and men. I recalled the joy and feeling of contentment that had not depended on a fat purse and a mansion, but on little things that wove their magic. Yet I could not recall his little face. The face I saw was the one I had seen on his funeral pyre, mauled by the claws of fate, smashed on the hard rock of racial hatred and crushed under the weight of prejudice. I wanted a drink. The pain was too great to bear.
