My mother has a good memory, but she is not a storyteller. She is too much of a hoarder for that. I once said to her: When we were children, Ram and I ran off one long afternoon and pretended we could not hear you call. We ran all the way down the road, crossed it, holding hands like daring adventurers, and explored the huge empty plot four streets away. We hid there, lying dose and still in the tall grass. You found us somehow, just before it got dark Do you remember?
Hariharan, Githa, The Art of Dying, Kunapipi, 15(3), 1993.