NCERT Textbook - Lost Spring | English Class 12 PDF Download

 Page 1


Lost Spring
Stories of Stolen Childhood
About the author
Anees Jung (1944) was born in Rourkela and spent her childhood 
and adolescence in Hyderabad. She received her education in 
Hyderabad and in the United States of America. Her parents were 
both writers. Anees Jung began her career as a writer in India. 
She has been an editor and columnist for major newspapers in 
India and abroad, and has authored several books. The following 
is an excerpt from her book titled Lost Spring, Stories of Stolen 
Childhood. Here she analyses the grinding poverty and traditions 
which condemn these children to a life of exploitation.
Notice these expressions in the text.
Infer their meaning from the context.
?? looking for ??  perpetual state of poverty
?? slog their daylight hours  ??  dark hutments
?? roof over his head ??  imposed the baggage on the child
‘Sometimes I find a Rupee in the garbage’
“Why do you do this?” I ask Saheb whom I encounter every morning 
scrounging for gold in the garbage dumps of my neighbourhood. 
Saheb left his home long ago. Set amidst the green fields of Dhaka, 
his home is not even a distant memory. There were many storms 
that swept away their fields and homes, his mother tells him. That’s 
why they left, looking for gold in the big city where he now lives. 
“I have nothing else to do,” he mutters, looking away. 
“Go to school,” I say glibly, realising immediately how hollow 
the advice must sound.
“There is no school in my neighbourhood. When they build 
one, I will go.”
“If I start a school, will you come?” I ask, half-joking. 
2
Chap 2.indd   13 12/11/2024   11:18:35 AM
Reprint 2025-26
Page 2


Lost Spring
Stories of Stolen Childhood
About the author
Anees Jung (1944) was born in Rourkela and spent her childhood 
and adolescence in Hyderabad. She received her education in 
Hyderabad and in the United States of America. Her parents were 
both writers. Anees Jung began her career as a writer in India. 
She has been an editor and columnist for major newspapers in 
India and abroad, and has authored several books. The following 
is an excerpt from her book titled Lost Spring, Stories of Stolen 
Childhood. Here she analyses the grinding poverty and traditions 
which condemn these children to a life of exploitation.
Notice these expressions in the text.
Infer their meaning from the context.
?? looking for ??  perpetual state of poverty
?? slog their daylight hours  ??  dark hutments
?? roof over his head ??  imposed the baggage on the child
‘Sometimes I find a Rupee in the garbage’
“Why do you do this?” I ask Saheb whom I encounter every morning 
scrounging for gold in the garbage dumps of my neighbourhood. 
Saheb left his home long ago. Set amidst the green fields of Dhaka, 
his home is not even a distant memory. There were many storms 
that swept away their fields and homes, his mother tells him. That’s 
why they left, looking for gold in the big city where he now lives. 
“I have nothing else to do,” he mutters, looking away. 
“Go to school,” I say glibly, realising immediately how hollow 
the advice must sound.
“There is no school in my neighbourhood. When they build 
one, I will go.”
“If I start a school, will you come?” I ask, half-joking. 
2
Chap 2.indd   13 12/11/2024   11:18:35 AM
Reprint 2025-26
14/Flamingo
“Yes,” he says, smiling broadly.
A few days later I see him running up to me. “Is your school 
ready?”
“It takes longer to build a school,” I say, embarrassed at having 
made a promise that was not meant. But promises like mine abound 
in every corner of his bleak world.
After months of knowing him, I ask him his name. “Saheb-e-
Alam,” he announces. He does not know what it means. If he knew 
its meaning — lord of the universe — he would have a hard time 
believing it. Unaware of what his name represents, he roams the 
streets with his friends, an army of barefoot boys who appear like 
the morning birds and disappear at noon. Over the months, I have 
come to recognise each of them.
“Why aren’t you wearing chappals?” I ask one.
“My mother did not bring them down from the shelf,” he answers 
simply.
“Even if she did he will throw them off,” adds another who is 
wearing shoes that do not match. When I comment on it, he shuffles 
his feet and says nothing. “I want shoes,” says a third boy who has 
never owned a pair all his life. Travelling across the country I have 
seen children walking barefoot, in cities, on village roads. It is not lack 
of money but a tradition to stay barefoot, is one explanation. I wonder 
if this is only an excuse to explain away a perpetual state of poverty.
I remember a story a man from Udipi once told me. As a young 
boy he would go to school past an old temple, where his father was 
a priest. He would stop briefly at the temple and pray for a pair of 
shoes. Thirty years later I visited his town and the temple, which 
was now drowned in an air of desolation. In the backyard, where 
lived the new priest, there were red and white plastic chairs. A young 
Chap 2.indd   14 12/11/2024   11:18:35 AM
Reprint 2025-26
Page 3


Lost Spring
Stories of Stolen Childhood
About the author
Anees Jung (1944) was born in Rourkela and spent her childhood 
and adolescence in Hyderabad. She received her education in 
Hyderabad and in the United States of America. Her parents were 
both writers. Anees Jung began her career as a writer in India. 
She has been an editor and columnist for major newspapers in 
India and abroad, and has authored several books. The following 
is an excerpt from her book titled Lost Spring, Stories of Stolen 
Childhood. Here she analyses the grinding poverty and traditions 
which condemn these children to a life of exploitation.
Notice these expressions in the text.
Infer their meaning from the context.
?? looking for ??  perpetual state of poverty
?? slog their daylight hours  ??  dark hutments
?? roof over his head ??  imposed the baggage on the child
‘Sometimes I find a Rupee in the garbage’
“Why do you do this?” I ask Saheb whom I encounter every morning 
scrounging for gold in the garbage dumps of my neighbourhood. 
Saheb left his home long ago. Set amidst the green fields of Dhaka, 
his home is not even a distant memory. There were many storms 
that swept away their fields and homes, his mother tells him. That’s 
why they left, looking for gold in the big city where he now lives. 
“I have nothing else to do,” he mutters, looking away. 
“Go to school,” I say glibly, realising immediately how hollow 
the advice must sound.
“There is no school in my neighbourhood. When they build 
one, I will go.”
“If I start a school, will you come?” I ask, half-joking. 
2
Chap 2.indd   13 12/11/2024   11:18:35 AM
Reprint 2025-26
14/Flamingo
“Yes,” he says, smiling broadly.
A few days later I see him running up to me. “Is your school 
ready?”
“It takes longer to build a school,” I say, embarrassed at having 
made a promise that was not meant. But promises like mine abound 
in every corner of his bleak world.
After months of knowing him, I ask him his name. “Saheb-e-
Alam,” he announces. He does not know what it means. If he knew 
its meaning — lord of the universe — he would have a hard time 
believing it. Unaware of what his name represents, he roams the 
streets with his friends, an army of barefoot boys who appear like 
the morning birds and disappear at noon. Over the months, I have 
come to recognise each of them.
“Why aren’t you wearing chappals?” I ask one.
“My mother did not bring them down from the shelf,” he answers 
simply.
“Even if she did he will throw them off,” adds another who is 
wearing shoes that do not match. When I comment on it, he shuffles 
his feet and says nothing. “I want shoes,” says a third boy who has 
never owned a pair all his life. Travelling across the country I have 
seen children walking barefoot, in cities, on village roads. It is not lack 
of money but a tradition to stay barefoot, is one explanation. I wonder 
if this is only an excuse to explain away a perpetual state of poverty.
I remember a story a man from Udipi once told me. As a young 
boy he would go to school past an old temple, where his father was 
a priest. He would stop briefly at the temple and pray for a pair of 
shoes. Thirty years later I visited his town and the temple, which 
was now drowned in an air of desolation. In the backyard, where 
lived the new priest, there were red and white plastic chairs. A young 
Chap 2.indd   14 12/11/2024   11:18:35 AM
Reprint 2025-26
Lost Spring/15
boy dressed in a grey uniform, wearing socks and shoes, arrived 
panting and threw his school bag on a folding bed. Looking at the 
boy, I remembered the prayer another boy had made to the goddess 
when he had finally got a pair of shoes, “Let me never lose them.” 
The goddess had granted his prayer. Young boys like the son of the 
priest now wore shoes. But many others like the ragpickers in my 
neighbourhood remain shoeless.
My acquaintance with the barefoot ragpickers leads me to 
Seemapuri, a place on the periphery of Delhi yet miles away from it, 
metaphorically. Those who live here are squatters who came from 
Bangladesh back in 1971. Saheb’s family is among them. Seemapuri 
was then a wilderness. It still is, but it is no longer empty. In 
structures of mud, with roofs of tin and tarpaulin, devoid of sewage, 
drainage or running water, live 10,000 ragpickers. They have lived 
here for more than thirty years without an identity, without permits 
but with ration cards that get their names on voters’ lists and enable 
them to buy grain. Food is more important for survival than an 
identity. “If at the end of the day we can feed our families and go to 
bed without an aching stomach, we would rather live here than in 
the fields that gave us no grain,” say a group of women in tattered 
saris when I ask them why they left their beautiful land of green 
fields and rivers. Wherever they find food, they pitch their tents that 
become transit homes. Children grow up in them, becoming partners 
in survival. And survival in Seemapuri means rag-picking. Through 
the years, it has acquired the proportions of a fine art. Garbage to 
them is gold. It is their daily bread, a roof over their heads, even if 
it is a leaking roof. But for a child it is even more.
“I sometimes find a rupee, even a ten-rupee note,” Saheb says, 
his eyes lighting up. When you can find a silver coin in a heap of 
garbage, you don’t stop scrounging, for there is hope of finding 
more. It seems that for children, garbage has a meaning different 
from what it means to their parents. For the children it is wrapped 
in wonder, for the elders it is a means of survival.
One winter morning I see Saheb standing by the fenced gate 
of the neighbourhood club, watching two young men dressed in 
white, playing tennis. “I like the game,” he hums, content to watch 
it standing behind the fence. “I go inside when no one is around,” 
he admits. “The gatekeeper lets me use the swing.”
Saheb too is wearing tennis shoes that look strange over his 
discoloured shirt and shorts. “Someone gave them to me,” he says 
in the manner of an explanation. The fact that they are discarded 
Chap 2.indd   15 12/11/2024   11:18:35 AM
Reprint 2025-26
Page 4


Lost Spring
Stories of Stolen Childhood
About the author
Anees Jung (1944) was born in Rourkela and spent her childhood 
and adolescence in Hyderabad. She received her education in 
Hyderabad and in the United States of America. Her parents were 
both writers. Anees Jung began her career as a writer in India. 
She has been an editor and columnist for major newspapers in 
India and abroad, and has authored several books. The following 
is an excerpt from her book titled Lost Spring, Stories of Stolen 
Childhood. Here she analyses the grinding poverty and traditions 
which condemn these children to a life of exploitation.
Notice these expressions in the text.
Infer their meaning from the context.
?? looking for ??  perpetual state of poverty
?? slog their daylight hours  ??  dark hutments
?? roof over his head ??  imposed the baggage on the child
‘Sometimes I find a Rupee in the garbage’
“Why do you do this?” I ask Saheb whom I encounter every morning 
scrounging for gold in the garbage dumps of my neighbourhood. 
Saheb left his home long ago. Set amidst the green fields of Dhaka, 
his home is not even a distant memory. There were many storms 
that swept away their fields and homes, his mother tells him. That’s 
why they left, looking for gold in the big city where he now lives. 
“I have nothing else to do,” he mutters, looking away. 
“Go to school,” I say glibly, realising immediately how hollow 
the advice must sound.
“There is no school in my neighbourhood. When they build 
one, I will go.”
“If I start a school, will you come?” I ask, half-joking. 
2
Chap 2.indd   13 12/11/2024   11:18:35 AM
Reprint 2025-26
14/Flamingo
“Yes,” he says, smiling broadly.
A few days later I see him running up to me. “Is your school 
ready?”
“It takes longer to build a school,” I say, embarrassed at having 
made a promise that was not meant. But promises like mine abound 
in every corner of his bleak world.
After months of knowing him, I ask him his name. “Saheb-e-
Alam,” he announces. He does not know what it means. If he knew 
its meaning — lord of the universe — he would have a hard time 
believing it. Unaware of what his name represents, he roams the 
streets with his friends, an army of barefoot boys who appear like 
the morning birds and disappear at noon. Over the months, I have 
come to recognise each of them.
“Why aren’t you wearing chappals?” I ask one.
“My mother did not bring them down from the shelf,” he answers 
simply.
“Even if she did he will throw them off,” adds another who is 
wearing shoes that do not match. When I comment on it, he shuffles 
his feet and says nothing. “I want shoes,” says a third boy who has 
never owned a pair all his life. Travelling across the country I have 
seen children walking barefoot, in cities, on village roads. It is not lack 
of money but a tradition to stay barefoot, is one explanation. I wonder 
if this is only an excuse to explain away a perpetual state of poverty.
I remember a story a man from Udipi once told me. As a young 
boy he would go to school past an old temple, where his father was 
a priest. He would stop briefly at the temple and pray for a pair of 
shoes. Thirty years later I visited his town and the temple, which 
was now drowned in an air of desolation. In the backyard, where 
lived the new priest, there were red and white plastic chairs. A young 
Chap 2.indd   14 12/11/2024   11:18:35 AM
Reprint 2025-26
Lost Spring/15
boy dressed in a grey uniform, wearing socks and shoes, arrived 
panting and threw his school bag on a folding bed. Looking at the 
boy, I remembered the prayer another boy had made to the goddess 
when he had finally got a pair of shoes, “Let me never lose them.” 
The goddess had granted his prayer. Young boys like the son of the 
priest now wore shoes. But many others like the ragpickers in my 
neighbourhood remain shoeless.
My acquaintance with the barefoot ragpickers leads me to 
Seemapuri, a place on the periphery of Delhi yet miles away from it, 
metaphorically. Those who live here are squatters who came from 
Bangladesh back in 1971. Saheb’s family is among them. Seemapuri 
was then a wilderness. It still is, but it is no longer empty. In 
structures of mud, with roofs of tin and tarpaulin, devoid of sewage, 
drainage or running water, live 10,000 ragpickers. They have lived 
here for more than thirty years without an identity, without permits 
but with ration cards that get their names on voters’ lists and enable 
them to buy grain. Food is more important for survival than an 
identity. “If at the end of the day we can feed our families and go to 
bed without an aching stomach, we would rather live here than in 
the fields that gave us no grain,” say a group of women in tattered 
saris when I ask them why they left their beautiful land of green 
fields and rivers. Wherever they find food, they pitch their tents that 
become transit homes. Children grow up in them, becoming partners 
in survival. And survival in Seemapuri means rag-picking. Through 
the years, it has acquired the proportions of a fine art. Garbage to 
them is gold. It is their daily bread, a roof over their heads, even if 
it is a leaking roof. But for a child it is even more.
“I sometimes find a rupee, even a ten-rupee note,” Saheb says, 
his eyes lighting up. When you can find a silver coin in a heap of 
garbage, you don’t stop scrounging, for there is hope of finding 
more. It seems that for children, garbage has a meaning different 
from what it means to their parents. For the children it is wrapped 
in wonder, for the elders it is a means of survival.
One winter morning I see Saheb standing by the fenced gate 
of the neighbourhood club, watching two young men dressed in 
white, playing tennis. “I like the game,” he hums, content to watch 
it standing behind the fence. “I go inside when no one is around,” 
he admits. “The gatekeeper lets me use the swing.”
Saheb too is wearing tennis shoes that look strange over his 
discoloured shirt and shorts. “Someone gave them to me,” he says 
in the manner of an explanation. The fact that they are discarded 
Chap 2.indd   15 12/11/2024   11:18:35 AM
Reprint 2025-26
16/Flamingo
shoes of some rich boy, who perhaps refused 
to wear them because of a hole in one of 
them, does not bother him. For one who has 
walked barefoot, even shoes with a hole is 
a dream come true. But the game he is 
watching so intently is out of his reach.
This morning, Saheb is on his way to 
the milk booth. In his hand is a steel 
canister. “I now work in a tea 
stall down the road,” he says, 
pointing in the distance. “I am 
paid 800 rupees and all my 
meals.” Does he like the job? I 
ask. His face, I see, has lost the 
carefree look. The steel canister 
seems heavier than the plastic 
bag he would carry so lightly over 
his shoulder. The bag was his. 
The canister belongs to the man 
who owns the tea shop. Saheb is 
no longer his own master!
“I want to drive a car”
Mukesh insists on being his own master. “I will be a motor 
mechanic,” he announces.
“Do you know anything about cars?” I ask.
“I will learn to drive a car,” he answers, looking straight into my 
eyes. His dream looms like a mirage amidst the dust of streets that 
fill his town Firozabad, famous for its bangles. Every other family in 
Firozabad is engaged in making bangles. 
It is the centre of India’s glass-blowing 
industry where families have spent 
generations working around furnaces, 
welding glass, making bangles for all the 
women in the land it seems.
Mukesh’s family is among them. None 
of them know that it is illegal for children 
like him to work in the glass furnaces with 
high temperatures, in dingy cells without 
air and light; that the law, if enforced, 
1. What is Saheb looking for in 
the garbage dumps? Where 
is he and where has he come 
from?
2. What explanations does the 
author offer for the children 
not wearing footwear?
3. Is Saheb happy working at the 
tea-stall? Explain.
Chap 2.indd   16 12/11/2024   11:18:36 AM
Reprint 2025-26
Page 5


Lost Spring
Stories of Stolen Childhood
About the author
Anees Jung (1944) was born in Rourkela and spent her childhood 
and adolescence in Hyderabad. She received her education in 
Hyderabad and in the United States of America. Her parents were 
both writers. Anees Jung began her career as a writer in India. 
She has been an editor and columnist for major newspapers in 
India and abroad, and has authored several books. The following 
is an excerpt from her book titled Lost Spring, Stories of Stolen 
Childhood. Here she analyses the grinding poverty and traditions 
which condemn these children to a life of exploitation.
Notice these expressions in the text.
Infer their meaning from the context.
?? looking for ??  perpetual state of poverty
?? slog their daylight hours  ??  dark hutments
?? roof over his head ??  imposed the baggage on the child
‘Sometimes I find a Rupee in the garbage’
“Why do you do this?” I ask Saheb whom I encounter every morning 
scrounging for gold in the garbage dumps of my neighbourhood. 
Saheb left his home long ago. Set amidst the green fields of Dhaka, 
his home is not even a distant memory. There were many storms 
that swept away their fields and homes, his mother tells him. That’s 
why they left, looking for gold in the big city where he now lives. 
“I have nothing else to do,” he mutters, looking away. 
“Go to school,” I say glibly, realising immediately how hollow 
the advice must sound.
“There is no school in my neighbourhood. When they build 
one, I will go.”
“If I start a school, will you come?” I ask, half-joking. 
2
Chap 2.indd   13 12/11/2024   11:18:35 AM
Reprint 2025-26
14/Flamingo
“Yes,” he says, smiling broadly.
A few days later I see him running up to me. “Is your school 
ready?”
“It takes longer to build a school,” I say, embarrassed at having 
made a promise that was not meant. But promises like mine abound 
in every corner of his bleak world.
After months of knowing him, I ask him his name. “Saheb-e-
Alam,” he announces. He does not know what it means. If he knew 
its meaning — lord of the universe — he would have a hard time 
believing it. Unaware of what his name represents, he roams the 
streets with his friends, an army of barefoot boys who appear like 
the morning birds and disappear at noon. Over the months, I have 
come to recognise each of them.
“Why aren’t you wearing chappals?” I ask one.
“My mother did not bring them down from the shelf,” he answers 
simply.
“Even if she did he will throw them off,” adds another who is 
wearing shoes that do not match. When I comment on it, he shuffles 
his feet and says nothing. “I want shoes,” says a third boy who has 
never owned a pair all his life. Travelling across the country I have 
seen children walking barefoot, in cities, on village roads. It is not lack 
of money but a tradition to stay barefoot, is one explanation. I wonder 
if this is only an excuse to explain away a perpetual state of poverty.
I remember a story a man from Udipi once told me. As a young 
boy he would go to school past an old temple, where his father was 
a priest. He would stop briefly at the temple and pray for a pair of 
shoes. Thirty years later I visited his town and the temple, which 
was now drowned in an air of desolation. In the backyard, where 
lived the new priest, there were red and white plastic chairs. A young 
Chap 2.indd   14 12/11/2024   11:18:35 AM
Reprint 2025-26
Lost Spring/15
boy dressed in a grey uniform, wearing socks and shoes, arrived 
panting and threw his school bag on a folding bed. Looking at the 
boy, I remembered the prayer another boy had made to the goddess 
when he had finally got a pair of shoes, “Let me never lose them.” 
The goddess had granted his prayer. Young boys like the son of the 
priest now wore shoes. But many others like the ragpickers in my 
neighbourhood remain shoeless.
My acquaintance with the barefoot ragpickers leads me to 
Seemapuri, a place on the periphery of Delhi yet miles away from it, 
metaphorically. Those who live here are squatters who came from 
Bangladesh back in 1971. Saheb’s family is among them. Seemapuri 
was then a wilderness. It still is, but it is no longer empty. In 
structures of mud, with roofs of tin and tarpaulin, devoid of sewage, 
drainage or running water, live 10,000 ragpickers. They have lived 
here for more than thirty years without an identity, without permits 
but with ration cards that get their names on voters’ lists and enable 
them to buy grain. Food is more important for survival than an 
identity. “If at the end of the day we can feed our families and go to 
bed without an aching stomach, we would rather live here than in 
the fields that gave us no grain,” say a group of women in tattered 
saris when I ask them why they left their beautiful land of green 
fields and rivers. Wherever they find food, they pitch their tents that 
become transit homes. Children grow up in them, becoming partners 
in survival. And survival in Seemapuri means rag-picking. Through 
the years, it has acquired the proportions of a fine art. Garbage to 
them is gold. It is their daily bread, a roof over their heads, even if 
it is a leaking roof. But for a child it is even more.
“I sometimes find a rupee, even a ten-rupee note,” Saheb says, 
his eyes lighting up. When you can find a silver coin in a heap of 
garbage, you don’t stop scrounging, for there is hope of finding 
more. It seems that for children, garbage has a meaning different 
from what it means to their parents. For the children it is wrapped 
in wonder, for the elders it is a means of survival.
One winter morning I see Saheb standing by the fenced gate 
of the neighbourhood club, watching two young men dressed in 
white, playing tennis. “I like the game,” he hums, content to watch 
it standing behind the fence. “I go inside when no one is around,” 
he admits. “The gatekeeper lets me use the swing.”
Saheb too is wearing tennis shoes that look strange over his 
discoloured shirt and shorts. “Someone gave them to me,” he says 
in the manner of an explanation. The fact that they are discarded 
Chap 2.indd   15 12/11/2024   11:18:35 AM
Reprint 2025-26
16/Flamingo
shoes of some rich boy, who perhaps refused 
to wear them because of a hole in one of 
them, does not bother him. For one who has 
walked barefoot, even shoes with a hole is 
a dream come true. But the game he is 
watching so intently is out of his reach.
This morning, Saheb is on his way to 
the milk booth. In his hand is a steel 
canister. “I now work in a tea 
stall down the road,” he says, 
pointing in the distance. “I am 
paid 800 rupees and all my 
meals.” Does he like the job? I 
ask. His face, I see, has lost the 
carefree look. The steel canister 
seems heavier than the plastic 
bag he would carry so lightly over 
his shoulder. The bag was his. 
The canister belongs to the man 
who owns the tea shop. Saheb is 
no longer his own master!
“I want to drive a car”
Mukesh insists on being his own master. “I will be a motor 
mechanic,” he announces.
“Do you know anything about cars?” I ask.
“I will learn to drive a car,” he answers, looking straight into my 
eyes. His dream looms like a mirage amidst the dust of streets that 
fill his town Firozabad, famous for its bangles. Every other family in 
Firozabad is engaged in making bangles. 
It is the centre of India’s glass-blowing 
industry where families have spent 
generations working around furnaces, 
welding glass, making bangles for all the 
women in the land it seems.
Mukesh’s family is among them. None 
of them know that it is illegal for children 
like him to work in the glass furnaces with 
high temperatures, in dingy cells without 
air and light; that the law, if enforced, 
1. What is Saheb looking for in 
the garbage dumps? Where 
is he and where has he come 
from?
2. What explanations does the 
author offer for the children 
not wearing footwear?
3. Is Saheb happy working at the 
tea-stall? Explain.
Chap 2.indd   16 12/11/2024   11:18:36 AM
Reprint 2025-26
Lost Spring/17
could get him and all those 20,000 children out of the hot furnaces 
where they slog their daylight hours, often losing the brightness of 
their eyes. Mukesh’s eyes beam as he volunteers to take me home, 
which he proudly says is being rebuilt. We walk down stinking lanes 
choked with garbage, past homes that remain hovels with crumbling 
walls, wobbly doors, no windows, crowded with families of humans 
and animals coexisting in a primeval state. He stops at the door of 
one such house, bangs a wobbly iron door with his foot, and pushes 
it open. We enter a half-built shack. In one part of it, thatched with 
dead grass, is a firewood stove over which sits a large vessel of 
sizzling spinach leaves. On the ground, in large aluminium platters, 
are more chopped vegetables. A frail young woman is cooking the 
evening meal for the whole family. Through eyes filled with smoke 
she smiles. She is the wife of Mukesh’s elder brother. Not much 
older in years, she has begun to command respect as the bahu, the 
daughter-in-law of the house, already in charge of three men — her 
husband, Mukesh and their father. When the older man enters, she 
gently withdraws behind the broken wall and brings her veil closer 
to her face. As custom demands, daughters-in-law must veil their 
faces before male elders. In this case the elder is an impoverished 
bangle maker. Despite long years of hard labour, first as a tailor, 
then a bangle maker, he has failed to renovate a house, send his 
two sons to school. All he has managed to do is teach them what 
he knows — the art of making bangles. 
“It is his karam, his destiny,” says Mukesh’s grandmother, 
who has watched her own husband go blind with the dust from 
polishing the glass of bangles. “Can a god-given lineage ever be 
broken?” she implies. Born in the caste of bangle makers, they 
have seen nothing but bangles  —  in the house, in the yard, in 
every other house, every other yard, every street in Firozabad. 
Spirals of bangles — sunny gold, paddy green, royal blue, 
pink, purple, every colour born out of the seven colours of the  
rainbow — lie in mounds in unkempt yards, are piled on four-
wheeled handcarts, pushed by young men along the narrow lanes 
of the shanty town. And in dark hutments, next to lines of flames of 
flickering oil lamps, sit boys and girls with their fathers and mothers, 
welding pieces of coloured glass into circles of bangles. Their eyes 
are more adjusted to the dark than to the light outside. That is why 
they often end up losing their eyesight before they become adults.
Chap 2.indd   17 12/11/2024   11:18:36 AM
Reprint 2025-26