Padma our plump Padma is sulking magnificently. (She cant read and, like all fish lovers, dislikes other people knowing anything she doesnt. Padma: strong, jolly, a consolation for my last days. But definitely a bitch in the manger.) She attempts to cajole me from my desk: Eat, na, food is spoiling. I remain stubbornly hunched over paper. But what is so precious, Padma demands, her right hand slicing the air updownup in exasperation, to need all this writing shiting? I reply: now that Ive let out the details of my birth, now that the perforated sheet stands between doctor and patient, theres no going back. Padma snorts. Wrist smacks against forehead. Okay, starve starve, who cares two pice? Another louder, conclusive snort… but I take no exception to her attitude. She stirs a bubbling vat all day for a living; something hot and vinegary has steamed her up tonight. Thick of waist, somewhat hairy of forearm, she flounces, gesticulates, exits. Poor Padma. Things are always getting her goat. Perhaps even her name: understandably enough, since her mother told her, when she was only small, that she had been named after the lotus goddess, whose most common appellation amongst village folk is The One Who Possesses Dung.

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