Barely avoiding a trampling by a mob of impatient relatives, Jehangir stepped out of the train onto the platform deck, and let the sweet, spicy air fill his lungs. He wasn't sure why he had made the decision. He wasn't sure why he had come. But he was here, and life would never be the same. He surveyed the bustle around him and thought wryly, "Welcome to Madras."

He tried to recollect how it had been, but the past seemed lost in a haze of forgotten memories. Still, as he walked out of the station on the dirt-caked path leading into the old city, he could not help but feel as if he had never left. Had twenty years really gone by? He could not believe it. He was sure the city had not changed. It was as if life had stopped here for the time he had been away. He felt the city had been waiting for him all this time, craving for that one child who had run away.

He walked onwards, away from the bustling city. He kept walking, thinking of that moment, that one precious moment. That one time where he had a chance. A chance to make a difference. But where was he now? An outcast? A criminal? How could he become what he feared the most? How could he betray his own people, his own blood?! All these questions burgeoned within his mind, a tangled web which for the first time he was trying to unravel. Trying to face the truth which he kept from himself for 20 years. And the more he tried, the more he unravelled, the deeper the pain. The deeper the wound. And it really hurt.

The wrought-iron gates stood before him now. "Where have you been?" They asked with their rust and peeling paint. He remembered his childhood, climbing and swinging from the gates as ayah would scream for him to come down before memsahib came home. The iron had always felt so cool and strong. The gates opened, and like old betrayed friends, they swung away from him. There was the house. It had seemed so large and imposing once. The gardens -- the fragrance of his mother's roses had haunted him for 20 years -- were untended and unforgiving. He saw a woman's face in the upstairs window. Mala. My sister, Jehangir thought. What can I say to her now?

The chalice was wrapped tightly in old rags at the bottom of his pack. He had always kept it near him. And now, unconsciously he reached for it. In moments he would re-enter his past, and the dark, forgotten places of his memories would be aflood with light. His hand found the base, and he imagined the curved metal, the delicate filigree, gilt edges. Even through the heavy cloth its touch gave him strength.

"Welcome, Master Satyan," a soft voice said behind him.

He turned around to face a dark-skinned, waif of a girl, shyly twisting her dubutta in her hands. He was momentarily at a loss. Then he saw the same round face, the dark black, soulful eyes and the thin lips as they had been twenty years ago. She had been a child back then. Now she was a woman. "Chottie is that really you? My, you have grown!"

"Yes Master Satyan," she replied, "you look older yourself. I would not have known you, had Baji Mala not told me you were coming."

"Mala? Oh my dear Mala. I want to see her....where is she?"

"Master Satyan, she is not feeling well. She is sick, i don't think...."

"..But i must see her, please let me see her."

20 years. He had been gone 20 years. Mala watched through the window as he approached the house. He had promised to come back, she remembered. And she had waited. She had spent 20 years looking through the window and waiting. She had spent 20 years defending him to those who questioned his loyalty, his very character. But she had always known he would be back. So here he is, she thought. Was there still a place for him? There had been harsh words the night he left, words he had not given anyone a chance to take back. Words that had hung in the air for 20 years, haunting their speaker, creating a chasm that only grew wider. What would they all say when he walked into the drawing room? She heard footsteps, hesitant, outside the door. She might have worried what words were appropriate, but one thought drowned out all others: He came back.

* * *

"Jehangir? Where are you!"

Mala walked around the back of the supply shed and struck a rickety panel in frustration. The shed resonated for a moment; something inside fell with a clang; and then only the wind.

"Jehangir! I'll tell ayah!"

She hated these games of hide-and-seek. Although Jehangir wasn't the smart one, he was annoyingly mischievous, and he could be as deceptive as an adult. Mala could not think like him, so it always ended this way, and she was getting tired of it.

A rustling sound came from the direction of the field.

It wasn't the wind.

She stopped on her toes. Hoping to surprise him, She circled around the sea of waving grey, and entered from the side, trampling on bent stalks with a crunch.

She was very still. The sound came again: a faint crackle. Something moved ahead of her. She had him this time! Mala broke into as much a run as she could manage through the heavy growth as the tall grass whipped around her face.

There was a dark shape. She sprang.

"Baaaaaaaaaa!"

The goat was not accustomed to being surprised by small flying girls. It bolted in terror, and Mala was left alone in the small grass depression it had occupied only a second earlier. She began to cry.

"Mala, dearest Mala,....don't cry."

She turned around sharply. In front of her, crouching on his knees, was Jehangir. He had one hand on her shoulder. With his other hand, he reached out and wiped out a tear from her eye. He was smiling, his pearly white teeth showing through his wide grin.

"There, there, Mala, Stop crying. I'm here now."