The little one’s eyes are squeezed shut.
In concentration, she prays.
Her mother looks at her with amusement
and love. What do you want kannamma?
To do well in the Maths test tomorrow?
The little one shakes her head. Her gold
earrings vehemently disagreeing with her.
“Amma, I prayed that someone famous
The mother clutches her good pious heart.
What a devil she was raising.
“That way we have a holiday tomorrow.
When someone famous dies, we always do.”
The mother attempts to drive some sense
into the practical child. What if God decided
that someone we knew, and loved, should die.
How would you feel then kannamma?
Knowing you had wished this upon them.
The child bites into the sugary prasadam.
Tilts her pretty head and considers. Bites again.
“Amma, we don’t know anyone famous.
So it doesn’t matter. Let them die.”
The mother marvels at her little one.
Such immense cruelty. Such charm.
Giving up, she prays too. Rather fervently.
For someone famous to die. Very famous.
need their holidays.