"Shishir! Shishir!" calls Putty the parrot from the cage. From the kitchen's barred window I peer into the dark green forest that borders the eight-feet high compound wall.

"Shh!" I say, stepping out into the drawing room. "Shishir isn't here."

"Shishir! Shishir!" Putty says again.

"Shishir has gone into the forest, riding his Enfield. He rides pretty fast, Putty. Yesterday a cheetah chased him, but couldn't catch up." I look up at his framed photograph on the wall: a gun in his hand, a dead tiger lying on the ground.

Putty flutters its wings, shivers a bit, and starts pecking at the apple. I go inside, the kerosene stove whirring on the kitchen platform. Putty says, "Shishir! Shishir" and urad dal donuts hiss in the boiling oil.