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        I grew up in two places: our home, and our grandparents home. In my childhood brain the town where our home was  had a name that meant the sound that things make when they fall. In my adult brain that knows better, it signifies religion, and the laws that govern human beings and their souls. It is knowing the difference between right and wrong. I think I had asked somebody why our grandparents' home had the name it did, and I believe it may be related to a Saint. Growing up in either place had its share of happinesses and anxiety.

The good things about growing up in our home. My sister and I were often left alone with the house locked up while our mother went out to do errands. May sound terrible to people now. But she had no options and babysitting was unheard of. My sister and I read books and played all the records that we wanted. Television wasn’t a big deal because we only got one channel and the programs were only on at certain times. There was a certain liberty that we felt. In our grandparents' home our maternal grandmother would cook amazing food. The house seemed more intrinsically beautiful. Even the lizards and moths on the walls looked more cultured and proper. There were fruit trees galore outside in my grandfather’s orchard. There were roses and lillies and chrysanthemums and dahlias that he loved to grow. There were cows, and hence an abundance of milk and sweets. There were dogs and cats to play with and befriend. Occasionally wild animals from the nearby forests would come into the orchard. Power outages were less common than our real home and there was always water. There was a big red tube-well whose sound I can still hear in my head if I just think about it.