And books I'd read twice and my father's letters

Treasured secretly in the small trunk beneath my bed:

I wrote to him once but did not post the letter

For fear it might come back 'Return to sender . . .'

One day I slipped into the guava orchard next door-

It really belonged to Seth Hari Kish.o.r.e

Who'd gone to the Ganga on a pilgrimage-

The guavas were ripe and ready for boys to steal

(Always sweeter when stolen)

And a bare leg thrust at me as I climbed:

There's only room for one,' came a voice.

I looked up at a boy who had blackberry eyes

And guava juice on his chin, grabbed at him

And we both tumbled out of the tree

On to the ragged December gra.s.s. We rolled and fought

But not for long. A gardener came shouting,

And we broke and ran-over the gate and down the road

And across the fields and a dry river bed,

Into the shades of afternoon . . .

'Why didn't you run home?' he said.

'Why didn't you?'

'There's no one there, my mother's out.'

'And mine's at home.'

3.

His mother was Burmese; his father

An English soldier killed in the War.

They were waiting for it to be over.

Every day, beyond the gardens, we loafed:

Time was suspended for a time.

On heavy wings, ringed pheasants rose

At our approach.

The fields were yellow with mustard,

Parrots wheeled in the sunshine, dipped and disappeared