The Flower Boy by Karen Roberts Page A

concentrated on his business. Stealing flowers was becoming increasingly difficult, especially since he had declared war on Krishna. Every time he ventured out into the gardens, he found Krishna already there.
    He put his prices up and it didn’t affect business. He now had eight rupees stashed away in the fat belly of his red plastic pig, which was hidden in a deep hollow at the bottom of the vegetable garden.
    At nearly seven, he was as determined to go to England as he had been at four. He still saw it as the easiest solution. Even the thought of Rosie-Lizzie couldn’t shake his determination.
    ON HIS SEVENTH birthday, he woke up with a feeling of excitement. He searched his memories for when he’d had a similar feeling, but he couldn’t really remember.
    He had to go to school, which was the only cloud on his otherwise cloudless horizon, and he couldn’t be late, not with so much trouble already.
    He went into the kitchen where his mother was busy frying sausages and eggs for the family. She came over to give him a quick hug.
    â€œSeven today,” she said affectionately. “Big boy. Soon you’ll be taking care of your old Ammi, no?”
    â€œYou’re not old,” he declared loyally, and hugged her back, hard, a sudden shaft of love for her going through him like a sharp knife. She was his Ammi, this always busy woman with her dark brown eyes that danced only occasionally. Even when she whipped him until he had red stripes on the backs of his legs and he hated her, he still loved her.
    His cheek was flattened against her smooth brown stomach and her arms hurt his head and neck but he wished he could die right then. Fiercely. Happily.
    But people didn’t die of love at seven, so he caught the moment before someone spoke too loud or moved too soon and it flew away like a startled butterfly.
    He carefully filed it away to bring out at another, less happy, time.
    School was the same as usual. Teacher droning and snoring. Mr. Aloysius raving and waving.
    The day hadn’t properly begun, and Chandi was already tired from it being his birthday, although only Sunil knew.
    He hadn’t told anyone else, not because he didn’t want to, but because he had no birthday treat for the class.
    Everybody who had a birthday on a school day brought something for the children. Sometimes it was bread pudding, sometimes milk toffee, sometimes kavum, sometimes halapa sandwiched between leaves.
    Something, anything.
    The birthday boy or girl would proudly carry his or her treat up to Teacher’s table, place it there and wait expectantly. The whole class stood up and sang “Happy Birthday” off-key, after which the food would be unceremoniously wolfed down.
    Chandi knew his mother was too busy to make him twenty-something somethings, so he hadn’t even asked.
    He didn’t really mind not being able to take anything to school. He had already planned his post-England-trip birthday party when there would be bread pudding, milk toffee, kavum, halapa and even cake.
    He could wait.
    HE TRUDGED IN through the kitchen door and found chaos and food everywhere. He stood there and surveyed the scene with mounting interest. Every available surface in the kitchen was covered with plates and platters and wooden painted trays decorated with lacy white doilies.
    His mother stood at the fireplace frying cutlets, lost in other cutlet-frying memories perhaps. The three servant girls were busy cutting milk toffee, cutting bread and cutting sausage rolls in half. Krishna was polishing glasses on a tray, looking sullen as usual. Leela was arranging patties on a large white and gold flowerlike platter, and Rangi was making cucumber and watercress sandwiches.
    His heart beat faster. Could it be possible? he wondered. Could it be possible that he did
not
have to wait until he returned from England?
    His mother turned around and saw him. She smiled vaguely. That was a good sign.
    â€œChandi,