Saw the snake neck turtle














If I were a good daughter, I'd bring some to my father, watch his blue eyes twinkle as he
slices open the rich, red fruit, then eats the tiny seeds with a silver spoon just like a proper
British gentleman.
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"He'll only stain his white suit," I grumble. My mother starts to say something to me, thinks
better of it, sighsas usual. We used to go everywhere together, my mother and Ivisiting
ancient temples, exploring local customs,
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watching Hindu festivals, staying up late to see the
streets bloom with candlelight. Now, she barely takes me on social calls. It's as if I'm a leper
without a colony.

"He will stain his suit. He always does," I mumble in my defense, though no one is paying
me a bit of attention except for the organ-grinder and his monkey. They're following my
every step, hoping to amuse me for money.
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The high lace collar of my dress is soaked with
perspiration. I long for the cool, lush green of England, which I've only read about in my
grandmother's letters. Letters filled with
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gossip about tea dances and balls and who has
scandalized whom half a world away,
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I am stranded in boring, dusty India watching an
organ-grinder's monkey do a juggling trick with dates, the same trick he's been performing
for a year.

"Look at the monkey memsahib. How adorable he is!" Sarita says this as if I were still three
and clinging to the bottoms of her sari skirts. No one seems to understand that I am fully
sixteen and want, no, need to be in London, where I can be close to the museums and the
balls and men who are older than six and younger than sixty.
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"Sarita, that monkey is a trained thief who will be begging for your wages in a moment," I
say with a sigh. As if on cue, the furry urchin scrambles up and sits
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on my shoulder with his
palm outstretched. "How would you like to end up in a birthday stew?" I tell him through
clenched teeth. The monkey hisses. Mother grimaces at my ill manners and drops a coin in its
owner's cup. The monkey grins triumphantly and leaps across my head before running away.
A vendor holds out a carved mask with snarling teeth and elephant ears. Without a word,
Mother places it over her face. "Find me if you can," she says. It's a game she's played with
me since I could walka bit of hide-and-seek meant to make me smile. A child's game.
"I see only my mother," I say, bored. "Same teeth. Same ears."
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Mother gives the mask back to the vendor. I've hit her vanity, her weak point.
"And I see that turning sixteen is not very becoming to my daughter," she says.
"Yes, I am sixteen. Sixteen . An age at which most decent girls have been sent for schooling
in London." I give the word decent an extra push, hoping to appeal to some maternal sense of
shame and propriety.
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"This looks a bit on the green side, I think." She's peering intently at a mango. Her fruit
inspection is all-consuming.
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"No one tried to keep Tom imprisoned in Bombay," I say, invoking my brothers name as a
last resort. "He's had four whole years there! And now he's starting at university.