11

ORANGE

Sweat was rolling down our backs, plastering our blouses to our skin when we finally reached the temple. It was in a quiet part of the city, with tree-lined avenues and large houses surrounded by walls. One wall had bits of broken glass set into the concrete on the top, so no one could climb over without shredding their palms.

“Pretty,” you said, reaching for the multicolored shards, through which sunlight skipped. “Pretty.”

“No, Rukku! Owwa!”

Near the temple we found a house set in the middle of a sprawling garden. I could spot every kind of fruit tree—mango, coconut, banana, jackfruit, and even a short orange tree. The wall was low enough to look over, and it bore a sign with the house’s name: LAKSHMI ILLAM.

“Look, Rukku. These people are so rich, they have time to choose a name for their house!” I said. “They must want even more money, too, because they’ve named their house after the Goddess of wealth!”

Kutti ran up to the wrought-iron gate, which swung open invitingly.

Our feet crunched on the gravel path leading to the front door. We’d only taken a few steps when an old man picking oranges called out, “Ai! What do you think you’re doing?” He looked us up and down, and I wished I’d smoothed our hair and skirts before entering the compound.

“I’m looking for work, sir, and—”

“Beggars?” He waved a fruit at us. “Get lost!”

“We’re not begging,” I said angrily. “I just told you I’m looking for work. I can do housework and—”

“You think rich people are going to give you jobs if you wander into their compounds with a mangy dog tagging along?” the old man said. “I’m the gardener here. Let me tell you what they’ll do. They’ll call the police, that’s what!”

“Police?”

“Yes!” he said. “So keep out.”

A noise came from a shed at the end of the driveway. To my surprise, a car drove out.

“House?” You pointed. “House? For cars?”

“That’s called a garage,” the gardener said.

The car pulled up to the front door of the mansion, and a woman in a sequin-studded sari stepped out. A girl in a lacy white dress skipped out from behind her.

“Look!” she cried. “What a cute doggie!”

“Get out.” The gardener shook his fist at us, like he’d been trying to chase us away.

“Stay away from that dog, Praba,” the woman said. “It’s a stray.”

I took your hand and walked briskly out the gate.

Something whizzed by my head. I ducked, shocked the gardener would go so far as to throw a stone just to keep up his pretense.

The object landed with a thud.

It wasn’t a stone. It was an orange.

I looked back, wondering if I should thank him, but the gate clanged shut.

“Might as well eat it. It’s not big enough to share with the boys,” I mused.

You smiled.

We sat in the shade of a gnarled rain tree. Kutti settled his head on his forepaws and watched us.

I gave you the orange.

“Ahhh,” you murmured, cradling it in your hands as if it were the most beautiful thing ever. You ran the tips of your fingers across its waxy peel. You turned it around and around, as if it looked different from every angle.

“Ahhh,” you repeated. You raised the orange to your nose, took a long sniff, and then gave it to me.

I took the orange and turned it around, just as you had. It glowed like a small, pale sun.

I felt its weight, its perfect ripeness—not too soft, not too firm. I breathed in its citrus scent. I started to peel it, noticing things I’d never noticed before: how the leathery peel isn’t colored the same all the way through, how the papery sections inside feel like leafy veins, how the pulp is shaped like raindrops.

When, at last, I placed a section in my mouth, I could hear it burst as my teeth met the flesh, squeezing the juice out onto my tongue, tart at first and then sweet. Everything else melted away except for the taste, the smell, the feel of the fruit on my tongue.

I ate the fruit slowly. The way you liked to do things.

Until then, I’d thought it was a sad thing that you were sometimes slower than the rest of us. But that day, I realized that slow can be better than fast. Like magic, you could stretch time out when we needed it, so that a moment felt endless. So the taste of half an orange could last and last.