Then the pack was on them.
His one-eyed brother knocked the tooth-thrower back into a snowdrift and tore his throat out as he struggled. His sister
slipped behind the other male and took him from the rear. That left the female and her pup for him.
She had a tooth too, a little one made of bone, but she dropped it when the warg’s jaws closed around her leg. As she fell,
she wrapped both arms around her noisy pup. Underneath her furs the female was just skin and bones, but her dugs were
full of milk. The sweetest meat was on the pup. The wolf saved the choicest parts for his brother. All around the
carcasses, the frozen snow turned pink and red as the pack filled its bellies.
It was on my own, a guilty pleasure, that I returned to thesea, beckoned by the mighty waves that crashed down
andreached for me in humble tidal ripples, gentle lassos thatcaught their willing Indian boy.
My gift to Mamaji one birthday, I must have been thirteenor so, was two full lengths of credible butterfly. I finished sospent I could hardly wave to him.
Beyond the activity of swimming, there was the talk of it. Itwas the talk that Father loved. The more vigorously he
resistedactually swimming, the more he fancied it. Swim lore was hisvacation talk from the workaday talk of running a zoo.
Waterwithout a hippopotamus was so much more manageable thanwater with one.
Mamaji studied in Paris for two years, thanks to the colonialadministration. He had the time of his life. This was in
theearly 1930s, when the French were still trying to makePondicherry as Gallic as the British were trying to make
therest of India Britannic. I don’t recall exactly what Mamajistudied. Something commercial, I suppose. He was a
greatstoryteller, but forget about his studies or the Eiffel Tower orthe Louvre or the cafés of the Champs-Elysées. All his storieshad to do