“I can give you a bowl of anything, a basket of roti, and a pot of tea for that,” the boy said.
“Tandoori chicken?”
“Surely.”
Tak sat down at one of the tables and the boy brought him the pot of tea and a cup. He set down the teapot but paused with the cup halfway to the table as a procession of clopping feet in geta marched past. Tak didn’t have to turn to know who it was: a troupe of older students, each chanting his name in a singsong. At least they weren’t trying to haul him back to school; taunting Tak could handle.
“What’s that they’re saying?” the boy asked, frowning.
“O’Reilly,” Tak said with a sigh. “My name. They are playing up the accent, with the r’s and the l’s. I assure you they all speak English just as well as you or I.”
“O’Reirry,” the boy repeated, then looked down
