I loved speed. Especially around those long roundabouts in Firayalal in Ranchi. If I knew how to ride the scooter, I would have just kept circling around. I loved the tilt, the force of gravity on one of my buttocks, the joy of memorising the same betel spit patterns on the sides as they repeated every five seconds.

This time, I was overjoyed, thinking father had overheard my wish. He was circling the roundabout. One. Two. Three. Four. The longest streak of betel syrup marking my starting point. Five. Six. … umm …

I blamed my stepmother for losing my count.

I could hear her say, a jee, thoda dheere. Go a little slower, I’m not properly seated. My father didn’t pay heed.

(Continued in the caption)

- Shambovine