“All my childhood, every morning, I tailed father as he visited the village households. I would carry his sewing machine and a satchel. I remember counting the buttons and carefully tying the needles inside cotton. The villagers would give him a mat to sit on while he sat there sewing. Blouses, waist coats, trousers and the occasional pillow covers. I remember him cautiously telling me, before we entered each home, ‘Son, do not open your mouth, just sit there with me and pass me my needles and buttons. Eat if given some food and wash the plate immediately and place it in the corner. And do not enter the house and do not touch the old man and woman who live in the house.” I would plainly obey father but I would try to peak into the house to see what was inside, for our home had barely anything. Some old rugs, pots and pans. I understood from very early on that we were poor and we led different and secluded lives. We always ate the grains that father earned in return for mending the villagers clothes. But apart from that, I was happy to be learning how to sew. And everyday I was getting better. I would clean the sewing machine and every evening checked the satchel to see if everything was in order for the next day. And I was happy to be by my fathers side. His happiness was mine and so was his sadness.”