Kalpa is a village far from here. Doesn’t matter where you live.
It’s just far, as I remember Moshi telling me stories about it. She’s from North. And, I never left Pilodh, our sweet abode to the lengthy farms my father owns and works at.
Pilodh has been my home for twenty-six years now. I was born here to the richest farmer, my friends say. They left last year to the city. Something to do with the money for the temple.
I remember that my grand-mother took me to the temple once, four miles from here. And, I don’t remember a longer trip.
I dream of the green-fields we can see from the top of our huge house. It’s not that huge, really, as you’d imagine for a farmer like my father. It’s just the smallest house with the finest materials from Old Britain.
Yes, my father, unlike other farmers, lets my mother do whatever she wants to. She wants the blankets from Manchester, she’ll have it. She needs to drink water from the city, she’ll have it. I want her to be dressed like Kay Adams, she’ll have the frock, but he won’t act like Michael Corleone.
Love that movie.
And, I am told to never leave her. Something to do with her legs. Father says she can’t walk, run or jump like I do. He also told me that I have to be here with her till my last breath.
Which makes me feel like running away with Moshi to her village. She is treated finer than the temple’s statues. She gets to eat chocolates from London. She even let me eat a Toblerone all for myself once. But, Moshi can’t run. Moshi can’t even walk. And, she definitely cannot jump as I do.
I am sick of you, Moshi. Please take me to Kalpa.