There is a swarm of towering legs all around him, squeezing his little face and almost carrying him in the direction they are going. The boy can barely reach the waist of these giant adults, but he uses it to his advantage. He slides through whatever little cranny he finds between those legs and finally jostles his way to the front. 

He turns back to holler a name, but his voice is drowned by Hanuman bhajans blasting from the speakers mixed with incessant motorbike horns. A small hand grabs his arm, and he pulls it in with all his vigour. 

A bit taller than him, she knows exactly what she’s here for. With her eyes set, she leaps as close as possible to the person standing across the high counter. She is handed a leaf bowl, which she fumbles to put down. 

It’s a steaming hot bowl of poori-sabzi — today is Bada Mangal in Lucknow! 

The server’s kurta is soaked in sweat as he passionately juggles these bowls to put one in each of the hundred hands surrounding him. They all bury the little guy’s skinny arm. He stands on tiptoe... jumps... yet remains unnoticed by all — save for one. 

His innocent tricks catch the eye of an old lady standing by, who offers him her own meal. He is beaming! 

The girl and the boy duck to make their way out while clutching their earnings as if their life depends on it. 

It’s relatively quieter on the side of the stall. She pulls out a big, bright red jhola from its hideout. He’s eager to help and grabs that bag from her to start counting their poori stock. She is forbidden from assisting. 

“Eeek... doooo... teeeen... paa... tsk” 

“Ek, doo, teen, ch... chaar, paaanch, chheee, nahi... arey yaar” 

The third time’s the charm! He finally gets the count right. She isn’t entirely pleased with it and tucks the jhola back into its place. 

The two are again at the front of the stall. They extend their hands, and more pooris quickly fall in them. As he starts to walk out, she tugs him back in, and he knows what that yank is for. He jumps a little, trying to reach out but accidentally pulls the server’s kurta. 

A big pile of sabzi splash lands on the white table right in front of the boy’s eyes. Everything stops for a moment. Silence. All eyes are on him. The boy’s face pales. 

A burly man leans over the counter and gives him a hostile glare.  

“Phir se tu... Idhar aa teri...” 

Just as he’s about to clench the boy, she drags him away, and they bolt without looking back. 

They are far enough now, but he isn’t ready to leave her hand yet. They are breathing heavily under the scorching sun.  

Another man from that stall gestures for them to come closer. He might catch them! They take a step back. But he calls them again, waving his pitcher. Well, he doesn’t look that scary. 

Both get a glass brimming with pinkish sharbat! And just like that, they forget everything. 

She treads carefully, holding her glass. But he’s busy twisting his fake moustache and trying to get a frown with bulging eyes, aping that livid man’s face. Her hearty laugh muffles even the loudspeakers. 

The actor in him is so engrossed in the craft that he doesn’t care about his spilling drink. She refills his glass from her own, and he gulps down all of it. 

Sitting on the roadside, he clumsily digs into their red jhola and whips out a crumbled polybag. He elbows her and gives a wicked eyebrow waggle. 

He struggles to get a good grip on his flimsy polybag, now full of that pink sharbat, using both his tiny hands. The girl wraps her arms around her jhola.  

As they walk past the counter, he sees something he can’t turn his head away from. His cheery face droops. It’s the same petrifying eyes. He suddenly starts walking faster and faster... and BANG! 

He bumps into a passerby. Without caring for his t-shirt, now soaked with sharbat, he makes a run for a narrow alley. At the corner of the street, she notices a problem: his bag is leaking, rapidly draining what’s left. She holds a glass underneath the leak to save whatever they can.

After a moment of intense thought, he has come up with the most brilliant idea ever. Without thinking twice, he races straight down the street and gets way too far even before she could call out his name. 

He halts in front of a small house covered in a tin shed. He’s completely bent, holding his knees, and panting heavily — but relieved. His happy wrinkles around the eyes quickly turn into a real frown this time when he notices his nearly-empty polybag. A spirited run wasn’t a good idea after all. 

A woman emerges from the heavy cooking smoke coming out of the front door, and the girl turns the red jhola to her. Their next meal is sorted. The woman comes back and rewards the boy with two empty glasses. 

Crouched on the doorstep with sagging shoulders, he fills up his sister’s glass, saving just a sip for himself. As if he had grown up during his run home. 

She seizes his glass and pours in it from her own — half and half.  

But that polybag dripping with chilled sharbat is still lying there. She sneaks it on the side, curls it up into a ball, and stuffs it inside his t-shirt. He’s too ticklish to control his belly laugh. He uncontrollably rolls on the floor — spilling some more sharbat.