It’s 5am and my alarm goes off.  I press the snooze button and try to re-create my un-finished dream whose existence precariously rests on my semi-slumber state.

“Sneha! School bus varra nerum ayidichi,” (In Tamil - Sneha, it’s time for your school bus to come!) shouts my amma.  

Chennai is rather cool for this time of the year. I reluctantly roll out of bed and hurriedly start my morning ablutions. As I walk over to the dining table to get breakfast, Lakshmi comes over to fill my glass with milk. We’re both 14 and about the same size but somehow, my old yellow skirt and orange blouse looks floppy and unshapely on her. We smile at each other just as we hear the loud horn from my school bus.

“Okay, bye!” I tell Lakshmi and run out the door.  She looks at me through the window and waves. I wait for her face to light up as I wave back, just as it lights up every day when she sees me go to school. Instead today, her mouth curls just enough for a smile and just enough to indicate a dejected heart.

“Lakshmi is going to live with us from now on,” my amma said four years ago. I didn’t mind. Being an only child, the prospect of having a playmate at home seemed exciting. Only, she never really had time to play with me. We would’ve just had five minutes of snakes and ladders before my amma calls her to serve tea or dry the clothes or find my missing black sock.

About two years ago, one sunny afternoon, when my amma was sleeping, we both snuck out and had two full hours of un-interrupted hopscotch and hide-and-seek. I was busy hiding when I suddenly heard the shrill voice of my amma reprimanding Lakshmi for taking me away from my studies. “Do you want her to become like you? Is that what you want?” Lakshmi looked down for a while and then promptly went inside the kitchen to do the dishes. I followed her and stood near the sink. “I am sorry, Lakshmi,” I whispered. I wanted to scream at my mother. I wanted to hug Lakshmi and tell her that I was on her side. She just continued to wash the dishes while moving a strand of hair away from her eyes with the back of her soapy wrist. I was too scared to see her cry and cowardly slinked away to my room.

I expected Lakshmi to never forgive me. Much to my surprise, the next day,Lakshmi grabbed me by the arm and taught me how to get the perfect raw mango from the old lady down the street. I washed the mango while she cut and slathered it with salt and red chili powder. We rolled our mouth-watering snack inside my amma’s washed, damp salwar and ate it on the terrace, telling my amma that we were going up to dry the clothes.

On occasions, when my amma is glued to her favorite TV serial, we do the daring and play with my amma’s old make-up kit. Those were my favorite escapades.

“Am I pretty?”

“You’re pretty, just like your amma,” had always been Lakshmi’s immediate reply.

Lakshmi’s hair was thick and rough but I always managed a crude plait with the wide, red comb. She would draw a thick line of kajol over her big eyes and keep staring at herself in the mirror. When we hear the familiar music indicating the end of the TV show, we would hurriedly scrub away all the kajol and bright red lipstick until our eyelids were about to tear and lips swelled.

“How much do we have to spend on these maids? First, her father and now her sister, ya. Illiterate bunch of goons who drink and die early. Ithu romba mosam.” (In Tamil – This is very bad)  The little girl now wants to go home and see her sister. They think money grows on trees, or what?” I had come back from school and my amma was deep in conversation with Shoba aunty.

Lakshmi was busy folding my laundry and pretending to not hear anything. I went up to her.

“What happened, Lakshmi?”

“My younger sister is going to die, the doctor said.  I want money for medicine," she swallowed hard and then said: “I miss my sister. I want to see her.”

I looked at her and realized for the first time that she also might have a family.

“What does your amma say?”

“My amma passed away. My younger sister lives with my grandmother.”

“You didn’t go to school?”

“I used to do housework in our town for food and medicine,” she paused. “I do love watching kids go to school.”