SupposingIbecameachampaflower, justforfun, andgrewonabranchhighupthattree, andshookinthewindwithlaughteranddanceduponthenewlybuddedleaves, wouldyouknowme, mother?
Youwouldcall, “Baby, whereareyou?” andIshouldlaughtomyselfandkeepquitequiet.
Ishouldslylyopenmypetalsandwatchyouatyourwork.
Whenafteryourbath, withwethairspreadonyourshoulders, youwalkedthroughtheshadowofthechampatreetothelittlecourtwhereyousayyourprayers, youwouldnoticethescentoftheflower, butnotknowthatitcamefromme.
WhenafterthemiddaymealyousatatthewindowreadingRamayana, andthetree’sshadowfelloveryourhairandyourlap, Ishouldflingmyweelittleshadowontothepageofyourbook, justwhereyouwerereading.
Butwouldyouguessthatitwasthetinyshadowofyourlittlechild?
Whenintheeveningyouwenttothecowshedwiththelightedlampinyourhand, Ishouldsuddenlydropontotheearthagainandbeyourownbabyoncemore, andbegyoutotellmeastory.
“Wherehaveyoubeen, younaughtychild?”
“Iwon’ttellyou, mother.” That’ swhatyouandIwouldsaythen.
