My name is Pepsi. At least that’s what they used to call me, once upon a time, when I had a family. No one calls me Pepsi anymore – but I remember my name.

Now they call me Lalli, Golu, Table, Dirty Dog, depending on who is calling me, in the street where I live.

I don’t remember too much about how I came to be here. One day after I had passed out from terrible pain, a kind boy gave me a piece of roti and some water to drink – it was the first time I had anything to eat in many days. When I looked around I saw I was on this street.

I heard the kind boy say to someone a few days ago that I am around ten years old, and have been living on the streets forever.

I’m not sure what “forever” means, but this wasn’t always my life. I remember a home, my family with two big humans and two small humans, all living in the great indoors. I used to be fed cakes and sausages and other delicious things every day; I had a bed of my own, and the little ones used to play with me and make a...

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