Chapter 2: From City Kitten to Dadi’s Dilemma

I am a cat.

I live in the countryside with Dadi.

Here, sunrises taste of wood smoke and boiled milk, and the distant whistle of a pressure cooker floats through the air. Dadi’s house sits behind a half-collapsed brick wall, ringed by marigold plants and dust that settles everywhere.

A week ago, Dadi’s little grandson discovered me—a scrawny scrap of kitten—and brought me home.

He gave me a bath, fed me chicken sausages, and cuddled me to sleep.

His hands were clumsy but warm, smelling of Parle-G and Dettol. His cheek pressed to my fur as he whispered promises, ceiling fans whirring above us.

Back then, my name was nothing special: Billu.

But Dadi’s son didn’t approve. He said raising a cat in Mumbai was too much trouble, and kittens brought all sorts of germs and bugs.

So, I was bundled up and sent off to the village.

Parting was bitter.

The little grandson sobbed, clutching Dadi’s saree pallu, wailing, “Dadi, her name is Billu. You have to take good care of her!”

His tears dripped down, smudging the sharp Dettol smell on his hands, and left little wet marks on the marble floor. He hiccupped, “Billu ka dhyaan rakhna, Dadi!” Neighbours peeked from behind grilled windows, muttering, “Bas, ghar mein ek billi bhi aa gayi, ab toh shubh shubh socho.”

“Papa said I can come visit Billu during summer holidays…”

Dadi looked bewildered. “Take a rickshaw? Didn’t your papa drive here?”

“Beta, be good, don’t call a rickshaw—what a waste of money.”

Dadi’s hearing is never on point.

When someone says ‘front gate building,’ she hears ‘bun gate pudding.’

The poor boy wailed louder. “Not rickshaw! Billu! Billu! Billu is the kitten!”

His voice echoed through the marble-floored stairwell, carrying all the heartbreak in the world. Dadi’s expression changed. She patted his sleeve and promised, “Eat biryani together? Haan beta, next time you visit, Dadi will buy you biryani.”

He was shattered, crying, “Help! Dadi’s gone deaf!”

Dadi slapped the table. “Want laddoo again? No problem!”

Not only is Dadi hard of hearing, she’s got a way with rhymes.

She hurried to comfort him, stuffing his pockets with Eclairs.

She pressed sticky, sweet Eclairs into his palm—her go-to cure for any childhood heartbreak. “Chup ho jao beta, dekho mithai mil gaya!” The taxi driver waited, looking annoyed, as the boy was scooped up and placed in the car, still shouting, “Billu!”

When the commotion faded, the yard went silent.