A birthday card from India is waiting in the mailbox. It’s from our grandparents – the ones in the village, not the ones in the big city of Calcutta. We telephone Baba’s parents once a week, but Didu and Dadu don’t have a phone, so they send weekly letters. Holding it against my heart, I take off the canvas slip-ons I’ve worn since I was little. Every year I get a bigger size, but the style never changes. Just like the loose denim overalls and single-coloured t-shirts I wear every day. Indy calls them my “uniform”.

Leaving my shoes by the front door, I head to my room to open the letter in peace. I have to climb over heaps of laundry, washed and unwashed. We each do our own now; I’m the only one who uses a basket. The rest of the family uses the stairs. Every now and then Baba hires a cleaning lady but she doesn’t tackle the laundry or the other STUFF that piles up everywhere. It feels like a beast that’s growing, taking over every drawer and shelf and counter. Not my room, though – that’s still nice and neat.

“That you, Pundit?” Indy calls from the kitchen. “Come...

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