In her mind, it was a year of Epic Proportions, an incredible year that could have been any other year for any other child, except Maya-then-Mia was no ordinary child. She knew this thanks in no small part to Lakshman the cop. He had made it very clear to her and to the rest of the family right from the start that Maya-then-Mia was special, very special.

And his favourite.

That was the one thing she and Gautam Bhaiyya couldn’t discuss. They discussed everything else under the sun, their stock of Phantom and Tintin comics and sweets, the large desert cooler rumbling in the background, creating a picture-perfect postcard of a memory that she would have no trouble accessing, unlike some of the later memory pebbles. A few years spent like this, and then all of a sudden it was time for matching school uniforms and getting dropped off in a Gypsy, though Gautam Bhaiyya often had to just make his own way.

“I don’t mind,” he used to tell her. “School is so close to our house.”

There was nothing missing.

Nothing.

Papa would take her out every night to point out the stars and to teach her something about something. Never about people (they’re the most boring, he would laugh) but something about astronomy or geology, something about the plants in their garden. Sometimes he would bring out the old Bajaj scooter and they would take a quick round (no need to tell anyone, he would chuckle as he got her an orange bar just for herself, neither of them acknowledging that her colourful tongue and messy face would be instant giveaways when they returned).

Neeti was hardly around, judging from Maya-thenMia’s scrapbook of memories, but that might just be self-preservation kicking in. The good bits were kept and the rest blanked out.

And things were good.

But then again, even in that monumental year before he died (the Big D, in contrast to her own periodic depression), she can remember in flashes the gradations of change, the tone and tenor in the house growing tense towards the summer and then, all of a sudden, Gautam Bhaiyya was quieter, often absent, even on the weekend afternoons that had till then been pledged to her. And then he was sent off to his “special school” that their father had taken him to one fine day, to meet someone called the Rishi.

No summer holidays lazing about together anymore, achanak se.

Maya-then-Mia used to get Gautam Bhaiyya to tell her everything back then, ha! Before, in a more innocent time. There was even a conversation between Lakshman and Neeti about the Pahaari (a witch, the children were told; never meet her alone, Neeti had growled), that Maya-thenMia couldn’t make head or tail of, though the first time she did meet her, the Pahaari (who she knew as Usha) smiled at her sweetly and gave her some chocolates, those fancy imported ones. And then she’d spoken to Gautam Bhaiyya as well.

But it had all been a blur, like maybe she’d dreamed it up. Maybe she had? Her diary isn’t clear on this point. She definitely hadn’t dreamt up what Gautam Bhaiyya had to go through, her diary is quite clear. How strange it had all been for him, meeting the Rishi for the first time with Papa. Their father had taken him the summer before he died to meet Rishi Uncle (who said not to call him Uncle). “That’s fine, that’s how grown-ups are,” she had told Gautam Bhaiyya, while asking him to recount exactly what had happened.

“He’s one of yours,” Papa had said to the Rishi in that room in the hills.

Gautam had tried not to flinch. (“One of yours means what? A new family?” Maya had asked Gautam later. Sensitive issue, given what they’d been hearing of Neeti and Lakshman’s fights. Although those had always sounded like they were about Maya and that “good-for-nothing witch”.)

The old man had looked at him from behind hornrimmed glasses and stroked his long beard, Gautam told her. He gave nothing away.

But a few moments later, his tone was gentle. “Come. Meet the other boys,” he said, pretending he didn’t see any signs of distress. “Nothing to worry about,” he had added, “You’ll fit right in.” Gautam had noticed that he radiated kindness, somehow.

The other boys had been playing some complicated game that looked like cricket but was not.

Papa had come back after a long smoke, nodded at Gautam and said, “We’ll go back now, come.”

In the Gypsy driving back, he had asked, “Did you learn anything interesting?”

“No,” Gautam said.

“No?” Lakshman asked again, but for once not sounding disappointed. “You will.”

Gautam had tried to tell him he wasn’t sure where the day had gone. His father had always told him to be honest, but sometimes honesty just made him angry. Not today, though. Today, he was humming quietly.

The children fell into their own strange routines, a bit more independent of each other. In fact, Gautam hardly got the time to check on Maya or even his parents, what with his rigorous spiritual and physical training. He had no time to absorb any of the tension brewing in the house, growing worse by the month.

Excerpted with permission from The Other Sister, Amrita Tripathi, Tranquebar/Westland.