The monsoon’s just beginning here, and yesterday Achan was reminding me for the tenth time not to go bathe in the Pamba with my friends. Hearing about those youngsters in Malshej makes his worried face, lit by the evening lamp, flash in my mind. I think of how the river looks so welcoming when the sun is harsh, but Achan knows its undercurrents better than any textbook I’m studying.
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