She’s ten, pressing her face into the mesh of a window, staring at her father as he smokes his heart out in the driveway. He rings the doorbell, soon, and she runs to him. She burrows her nose into his back as he walks in. He locks himself in the bathroom. She hops about, unsticking and sticking the fridge magnets. She can hear him play videos inside. When he walks out, she’s holding up a water. He tells her to let him breathe, at which she giggles.  

He’s laid on the bed, staring at his phone. She talks aloud about her schoolteacher to no one, tidying the bedroom. She picks up his discarded blazer and trousers, turning her back to him while she sniffs them in, paws at the pockets. He asks for dinner – what did the help cook today? He’s so bored of daal chawal. She stuffs his clothes into the laundry basket and serves daal chawal. Late at night, while he snores, she tiptoes from their bed. Erratic, orange light from moth-laden streetlamps spills into the living room and finds her digging into his work satchel. 

He inhales his cornflakes in the morning and pats her head before leaving for work. She watches him go with her hands behind her back. As his car turns out of sight, she skips to the driveway, holding up a slightly crumpled cigarette. She bites into it from the end, drool pooling in her mouth with the effort of keeping it afloat, and takes out a matchbox. 

Chik! – the first matchstick doesn’t last, and – chik! – the flame erupts too high, she jumps and drops it, and – chik! – this one is steady. Cigarette trembling in her pursed lips, she lights it up. The first pull leaves her dizzy, an immediate cough wracking over her, which turns into a fit. 

She bends to the ground at her fallen cigarette, breathing in its fumes, eyes teary.