Corn and lemon and some other things all in a paper cup. I was six. Maybe seven. We walked through Pune and I wore my white hat. The white hat is now long gone, torn lost dead. It was my grandfather's, the kind that umpires wear. He wasn't an umpire but he could have been.

I didn't want to eat the corn. It was too sour. But when I said that I was silenced with stories of children dying of hunger. So I ate all of it and my nose leaked and my vision got all blurred. I didn't throw the paper cup away, because I assumed there are children in the world without paper cups.

I came home and planted a plant in the cup. My grandfather let me borrow some of the soil from his garden. "Do you want me to help you?" he asked. I said no and watered the small soil filled cup for a few days until the cup turned to mush and the plant looked dismal.

A few leaves shot out a week later. They smelled of lemons but not of corn. It died eventually and I threw the whole mucky package into the dustbin. I was sadder than I thought I'd be. But not as sad as the children in the world, I was told.