“This.”
Pratibha grasped at a fig on a branch above her. The breeze rustled at her dress, and she stilled it with her free hand.
Her younger brother was crouching nearby, holding a blade of grass. “This,” he said.
“Aamir…” She sighed, and gave up on reaching the fruit. “Why do you keep saying that?” she asked, in Hindi.
“This,” he said, in English.
She bent her head low and examined his vacant expression. “Why do you keep saying nonsense?”
“This.”
“Aamir, look at me.” She waved her hand in front of his face, to no response.
Aamir dropped the grass. “This.”
“Stop it, right now.” Pratibha took hold of his head, and turned it towards her. Aamir’s face twisted, as if she was interrupting him in the middle of something. She stared at him for a moment, and let go.”
“You’ve been doing this for over an hour, Aamir. Stop it, right this moment!”
“This.”
“Be quiet!”
Aamir stood up, looked straight up toward the heavens, and took a deep breath.
“THIS!”