Sal here, with a funny little idea I got while writing the last chapter of TP.  I know, I still haven't finished the two-parter, although I plan to, and very soon, perhaps even directly after the next chapter of TP; I just couldn't get this out of my head. So, if you're disappointed, I apologize, but I had to write this down and post it.

 5 March 1955

The boy squeezed his eyelids together, shutting them so tight so that he could force out every last drop that was waiting to slip out.  While the other three boys lay still in their bunks, quietly dreaming, he tossed and turned, searching in vain for a comfy spot.  Nevertheless, even if the bunk had been the same as his own feather bed back home, the odds were that he still wouldn't sleep well tonight, just like every night since he had first set foot in the town of Panchgani.

A whole month, almost, the boy had been living here in this big boarding school, sleeping in this stuffy dormitory with the hard, flat bunks along with three other chaps, each of them at least a year or two older than he.  One month should have been enough to grow accustomed to this place, with its strange people and strict rules, but he was nowhere near used to it yet.  How could he be, when he couldn't stop thinking about his family.

Every time the boy closed his eyes, he could see them all- his mama, and papa, and his little baby sister, all standing there on the pier together, waving while he drifted further and further away.  He waved back till his arm was sore, and till so much ocean had separated them that they were nothing but little black dots that were eventually swallowed up by the fine white sands and palm trees of the island he called home.  But he kept looking back, tears streaming down his face, until Zanzibar itself disappeared, and all that remained in any direction was clear blue sky, and the deep blue sea.

The boy wiped his face dry on the back of his pajama sleeve and sniffed.  He was glad that this time around, the tears had only started falling once the lights were out; he was getting better and better at that with each day that passed, holding the tears in until he was sure no one was watching. For if the bigger boys caught you crying, the punishment for such a display was swift and enduring; you were dubbed a "little bitty baby" for at least the rest of the week, and giggled about and pushed around for at least the next two until they forgot about it, or until some other foolish little amateur cried in public and gave them another new name game to play. And all this was assuming that you learned your lesson, and were never caught crying again. 

In short, the boy had learned the hard way that here at St. Peter's, tears were not allowed if you wanted to survive.

But then, this was no real shock to him.  Tears hadn't been very welcome at home, either.  Although Mama would always kiss and hold him tight whenever he was scared or upset to the point of crying, Papa always seemed irritated by it.  He thought back to how bitterly he wept the day his parents revealed that they were sending him overseas for his education, how loudly he begged them not to leave him alone, and how sternly his father reprimanded him for reacting in so childish a manner, and for not taking it like a man.

Luckily, he had not yet made the mistake of tearing up in front of his roommates.  So far, they all seemed like nice guys- even the English boy who couldn't pronounce his name correctly- but he wasn't taking any chances.  Some of the children had already taken to calling him "Bucky" because of his teeth; over his dead body would he give the rest of them a reason to refer to him as a "baby."

Just then an odd, high-pitched noise snapped the boy to attention.  He sat up, wiping his cheeks again, and listened a little closer. 

Silence.  Then, very faintly, he heard little squeaking noises coming from outside the dormitory wall.  Rats in the schoolyard, he guessed, wrinkling his delicate nose. Nasty things. 

But the noises happened again, a bit louder now, having come closer to the outside wall.  And the boy's eyes widened- and his lips split in a big, toothy smile. 

Not squeaks.  They were miaows.  A chorus of tiny, high-pitched miaows was ringing just outside the wall of the dorm, a mere five feet away from where the boy sat at this very moment. 

The boy slid out of his bunk, scrambled to the window, and peered out into the night.  But it was too dark outside to see anything, and even if the moon had been full, the miaows were already dying down, fading away.  And after all, he would be risking his very own hide to go and look for the kittens tonight; the schoolmaster always seemed to have his eye on the boy, somehow he'd find out and make an example of him.  With a sigh, the boy clambered back into bed, curled up under the covers, and stared at the slats of the bunk above, where the English boy slept.

Three minutes later, he couldn't take it anymore.  Once again the boy hopped out of bed- but this time he crept carefully on tip-toes toward the door, though not before swiping the prized torch of one of his other roommates.  After all, he didn't need it at the moment.  Stepping silently past the supervisor, who himself had dozed off, the boy unlocked the door, scurried out, and closed it.  He was committed now.

The boy wasted no time.  Right away he began his midnight search.  He ran all around the schoolyard in nothing but his white nightshirt and underwear, looking like a little ghost fluttering here and there, in search of his feline visitors.

However, under the window, and all around where he had heard the soft miaows, there was no trace of cats. So he scoured the rest of the perimeter. Again and again, the boy came away unsuccessful. 

Until he heard it- a single, very faint, but unmistakable "...Miaow..."

The boy whirled. In great excitement he peered through the nearby underbrush and poked around in the landscaping, following the sound of the helpless little wails. At last, he found the source of the sound. He knelt, very carefully lifted a cluster of big, flat leaves, and shone the torch over the spot.

There he found a tiny, lone black kitten crouching low in the dirt, its big, frightened yellow-green eyes reflecting the flashlight's glare.  He smiled at it, trying to decide whether he wanted to wake up his friends too so they could see, or keep quiet so as not to startle the animal.

"Hello, little pussycat," he murmured.  "Where did you come from?"

She mewed plaintively, as if in reply.  Now, of course, he knew she couldn't answer him with words, but somehow this made him feel better, talking to her like he would a person, pretending she understood him. 

"Where's your family?" the boy asked, and after a beat, added, "Did they send you away too?"

The kitten just blinked at him, pawing nervously at the soft earth.  She looked terribly thin and frail; the boy concluded that she must have gotten lost or something when its family moved from their nest. It never occurred to him that the mother cat very likely had indeed abandoned her because she was so small, and unlikely to last more than another week. 

Unable to help himself, the boy reached down to touch her soft black fur.  With a little squeak she pressed herself closer to the ground, the nearer he reached. But she didn't run away, much to his surprise. She just lay there, staring up at him.

"It's all right, baby," the boy whispered. "It's all right. I won't hurt you."

So saying, he stroked her fuzzy head, very gently, using only two fingers.  And to his complete delight, she let him, mewing a couple more times before drumming up a purr deep down in her tiny throat.  The boy giggled.  He loved it when they did that.

A little distance away, the boy thought he heard a twig snap. In seconds he stood back upright and shut off the torch.  He didn't want to leave Baby (as he had spontaneously decided to call the kitten), but he also didn't want to get in trouble.  Luckily he knew his way around well enough to find his way to the House entrance in the dead of night.  Up the steps, through the door, into bed- all in under a minute.  And in bed he stayed, until finally his own fatigue got the better of him, visions of kitty cats dancing in his head.

He hadn't forgotten Baby by next morning.  Since it was Sunday, and it was a free day for St. Peter's pupils, the boy made up his mind during the morning chapel service to go scout around the dorm, see if any trace remained of Baby.  So, with a little food he had saved from breakfast tucked up in a handkerchief, the boy hurried out of the church and searched for Baby.  Much to his happiness, she was sitting right where he left her last night.

The poor thing was probably starved, he knew- but oh, what a fabulous feast awaited her now!

He reached his hand into his pocket, drew out the handkerchief full of little tidbits from that morning- a morsel of kipper, a bite or two of hard-boiled egg, and half a piece of buttered toast. Tearing the bit of fish in half, the boy held out the food to her.  Without hesitation, she gobbled it up directly from his fingers.  The boy grinned, giving her the rest of the fish, which she swallowed almost in one bite. 

The egg, however, she wasn't sure about right away.  So he began to urge her, "Come on, Baby, you'll like this.  Try it."

And so, with the boy's gentle coaxing, the little cat took to nibbling at the powdery egg yolks- and before long, she was ravenously going after every single bit of the food he had brought her. 

"Good girl," he cooed, touching her head.  "This will make you strong.  Eat it all up."

"Freddie!"

That was the voice of Charlie, the tow-headed English boy.  He turned to see a handful of his friends from the House heading his way.  He stood up, but not before carefully covering Baby with the leaves again.  For he had seen the way some of the other boys here treated the birds and the tree squirrels; God only knew what they might have done to a little kitten.

"Freddie!  You play cricket?"  Charlie asked.

The boy blinked, spoke hesitantly.  "Um, no.  I don't know how."

"Then we'll show you- but I'm team captain."

"And, uh- it's Farrokh, Charlie," he told his English friend.  "My name is Farrokh."

"But I can't say that. Anyway, the schoolmasters call you Freddie, don't they?"

"Yes, but-"

"Then it's fine.  Now come on!"

Oh, well, he said to himself.  It's better than Bucky, I suppose.

With a subtle roll of his eyes, the boy turned to look back at Baby's little hiding place, decided she was safe, and went with this friends.  He would go back to check on her later in the day, he decided- and make sure she was still alive and mewling.

So began a sweet, secret routine.  Every morning, the boy saved a portion of his breakfast for Baby, and did the same with his supper every night.  Then, when no one was watching, he would go down into the underbrush and feed his little feline friend.  Thanks to the boy's constant nurturing, Baby soon became confident and strong enough to leave her den of safety, and go prowling around on her own while the boy spent his time in class.  But she never failed to appear at mealtime, ready for the food, the petting, and the soothing sound of his soft, gentle voice. 

The days turned into weeks, and Baby stopped being so helpless, proving this one morning by proudly presenting the boy with a small mouse she had caught the night before.  But she didn't seem to get much bigger in size.  She had clearly been the runt of the litter, and so it seemed her lot to stay around the size of a kitten. 

But the boy didn't mind.  If anything, that only made him love Baby more- and she in turn, grew more and more attached to her young master.  Sometimes she would even follow him around the schoolyard, watching him closely as he skipped to and from each class, waiting for him to turn around and call her over. And she always came, tail in the air, rubbing up against his legs while he bent down to run his hand along her small black body, her huge golden eyes gazing up at him with devotion.

Then one day, just after teatime, it happened. 

The boy emerged from the House, singing softly under his breath.  Automatically his eyes darted around in search of Baby.  He had a very special treat for her that evening: a whole tin of sardines, which he had gambled for and won from Charlie after a very intense game of cribbage. 

Just overhead, he heard a rustling of leaves and a familiar, squeaky "Miaow".  The boy looked up to see Baby lounging away among the branches.

"There you are!" he grinned, and clicked his tongue.  Very carefully, then, the black cat started climbing down the trunk of the tree, mewing in excitement.

"Come here, Baby," he cooed, showing her the tin.  "Look, I've brought you the most lovely-"

"Who're you talking to, Bucky?" another voice interrupted. 

With a gulp, the boy turned his head to see one of the most notorious little monsters in the school, staring him down.  Only last week, the boy had watched him pull the fragile wings off of a small yellow butterfly- which in itself was almost enough to make him cry on the spot.  But he knew better- and he waited, like always, till the moon was shining above.

"No one," the boy mumbled, hurrying away from the tree before the bigger boy saw her.  But every time he tried to walk around him, the monster took a step in front of him, blocking the way. 

"It looked like you saw something up in the tree," the monster pressed, his mouth curving smugly.

The boy set his jaw, felt his empty hand twitch.  "Nothing.  It's nothing.  Now give over."

But by this point, Baby had circled around and was nuzzling contentedly against the boy's shins.  And the monster's eyes widened. 

"Ugh, a stray!" he snarled.  "Get out of here, you little moggie!"

"No, don't!" the boy exclaimed, stepping in front of her.

The monster snorted.  "What's this, then? Is it your little pet?"

"This is Baby," he said quietly.  "And she's- she's my friend."

The monster laughed.  "What, that little mangy fleabag?  A friend?"

"Yes, she is!  Now leave her be."

"Don't you know black cats are bad luck?" the monster scoffed. 

Before he could answer, the monster pulled back his foot and kicked Baby across the schoolyard.  When she landed, the little black cat glanced back frantically, as if asking why the boy was letting this happen.  He wasn't, of course; rather he was frozen with horror, at how mean and how wretched was the monster, to hurt his dear little friend like this!

"Yah, yah!  Get out of here, you little beast!" the monster crowed, picking up a good-sized rock and throwing it at Baby. 

The boy's heart slipped from his chest. "NO!" he screamed, but the monster only laughed harder and picked up another, smaller but sharper rock.  But she had already zipped away long before he could lob this one, running for her life. 

All of a sudden the boy unfroze, and he ran a few paces after her.  "Baby, stop!  Come back!" he cried, but it was too late.  She had disappeared.  She was gone.

After a moment he realized that the tears had started.  Were he in a clearer state of mind, he might have immediately tried willing them back inside, but all he could think about was his little friend.  The monster had hurt his Baby, he had scared her away.

And there he stood, laughing and laughing, so proud of himself.  Proud of hurting little things.  Proud of scaring little things.  Proud of pain, and fear, and meanness...

Something in the boy snapped. 

In his hand he still gripped the sardine tin; before he knew what was happening, the tin sailed through the air and struck the monster square in the cheek, making him yelp in pain.  And the boy, tears still streaming down his cheeks, let out a triumphant bark of a laugh.

A split second later, he realized this was a mistake.  Without warning he was knocked off his feet and thrown to the ground with the monster trying to hold him down.  But the boy was still full of righteous anger, and he threw a wild punch with the hand the monster hadn't pinned down.  As luck would have it, he struck the monster directly in the nose.  On reflex the monster hit him back, using the hand still gripping the sharp rock, scratching his face. 

Before long, the fight started drawing a crowd, the little boy miraculously holding his own against the bigger one.  At least, he did at first- but before long the monster started to overpower him, and might have broken something else in the boy aside of his heart, had one of the schoolmasters not intervened and separated the two of them. 

Of course, they were both given a fair bout of discipline each- though the boy's came only after he paid a visit to the nurse, who bandaged the small, bloody gash the monster had left on his right cheek.  But there was one good thing that did come of the whole ordeal: from then on, the monster never messed with the boy again.  In fact, all the pupils treated the boy a bit differently.  No longer did anyone dare call him a crybaby, for they knew better now.  As scrawny, sensitive, and strange as he might still have seemed to them, they now knew he was a fighter deep down- and a passionate, determined one at that.  No one had any desire to push "Bucky" to that point ever again.

As for Baby, the story ends a bit more tragically.  For in the days following the incident, the boy's friend remained absent.  The little black kitten, who once had never missed a single mealtime, no longer hid in the leaves and watched for his arrival; no longer did she prowl around the school, watching him from a distance; no longer did she tag along at his side on occasions when she was feeling especially brave.  She simply vanished- and the boy did not see her again.

Not for a very long time.

******************************************************************************************

13 February 1963

Very gently, the young man touched the keys of the old piano, picking out the melody of "Somewhere Over the Rainbow".  Before too long, he found himself sitting down on the bench, playing some other song.  If he was to get any more good out of this piano, the same one where he had learned to play enough to bang away like Little Richard with his school band, the Hectics, he had to do it now.  There wouldn't be much of a chance to later, this being his last week of school here.  Any minute now, his parents would arrive from Bombay to pick him up and bring him home.

He was sixteen years old, a very different young man from the boy he had been in his first years here in Panchgani.  But that was to be expected; were he the very same person he had been all that time ago, they would have eaten him alive.  Living on his own had taught him a great deal about life, and the hard, uncomfortable truths that come with it. 

But not everything was an unpleasant memory, or experience.  Those performances with the Hectics, and singing in the choir, and those ever-so-exciting drama productions, and Baby...

The young man stopped playing.  Funny that Baby should cross his mind now.  He hadn't thought of her in years. But now that the memory was sparked, he allowed himself to go back, remember those earliest days of loneliness- and the black kitten that made them easier to bear.

As he recalled, he had missed Baby, he missed her terribly, especially for the first few months.  There was more than one night spent in shedding a tear for his lost little friend, let there be no doubt.  But he carried on just the same, till he put enough time between her and himself to let her fade away in the distance, like the ocean and his family that fateful day long ago.

Just by chance, the young man glanced up, looked out the open window- and gasped. 

A little black cat was strolling past the window. 

It was ridiculous to get so excited, he knew.  This was India, and India like any other fucking place in this world was simply riddled with cats, even black ones.  It was a pure coincidence, naturally, nothing to see there. 

Nevertheless, one thing that certainly had not changed over the years was the young man's love for the feline species.  He stood from the bench, walked out of the half-empty music hall, and followed the black cat with his eyes.  He squinted against the sun, still wondering, still questioning whether it really could be the same little cat.

And as silly as he felt for doing this, he called out, just in case, "Baby?"

The cat stopped walking, turned its head- and the young man's heart skipped a beat.  His voice had changed a great deal since the last time he called out to her- it was much lower now, stronger, and more British- but it seemed that all those things didn't matter.  She knew the voice of her old master anywhere.

He took a step closer.  "Baby, is that you?"

A pause, before she let out a soft, high-pitched squeak of a miaow and blinked her big, panther's eyes.

It's her, he realized.  It's Baby.  She's still alive!

Right before his very eyes, Baby turned around and walked towards him- but stopped about ten feet away.  Taking this a some kind of cue, the young man took another step forward, only for her to turn again and start bounding off in the other direction.  He followed just behind, maintaining an easy pace so that she wouldn't feel like he was chasing her down. 

At last Baby drew to a slower pace, working down to an easy strut as she approached the old House, where he used to sleep.  With another miaow, she sat down near the big flat leaves, the place where he had found her first, and waited for him.  For old time's sake, the young man reached down to touch her little head- when he heard a soft rustling among the leaves. 

He stood, startled- only to relax into a soft little smile again when he watched one, two, three, four, five little kittens tumble out into the open. Two were black, like their mother, and two were more of a dark brown color, almost like a tabby design- and one was black with snatches of white on the nose and the chest. 

"Are these all yours?" He shook his head, chuckling.  "Oh, Baby, you naughty thing."

She mewed, nuzzling her head against his legs.  This time, he didn't hesitate; he knelt down, rubbed gently behind her ears the way she liked.  Deep inside, the young man felt himself getting a little emotional; it touched him to know that after all these years- eight of them, almost- this sweet black cat still remembered him.  He didn't cry, though; he was practically a grown man, after all, and he had to show his father as much when his family arrived.

That reminded him. He had to be completely ready for them when they showed up later, and he still had a few things to pack.  What was more, the young man wanted to say his goodbyes to his other human friends as well. 

So with a little sigh, he said, "All right, Baby, I've got to be going.  Good to see you though."

Quietly she pressed her head up against the palm of his hand, and licked his thumb, which made him laugh softly. 

"Yes, I love you too, darling," he cooed.  "Don't forget me, all right?"

 Baby mewed one last time, more plaintively than ever before- but she seemed to understand, somehow.  Without another sound, she stood up, and slunk over to her family of kittens, corralled them back into the leaves and out of sight.

He stood, watching the tip of her slim tail disappear into the green, slipping away from him as quietly and completely as his childhood innocence had, once upon a time.

"Bye-bye, Baby," he murmured. 

And he turned around and started walking the other way, toward the future.