Chapter 2: Plant response to elevated CO2 - DRUM - University of ...

What stays with me is the sound of my heart pounding in my ears and the
bright yellow lemons hanging low, waiting to be picked. We were twelve of us:
Reema, Medha, Pia, me and the rest of Pia’s brothers and sisters and I think
Ankur too, though I am not sure, right now. When one of the lemon‐tree women
saw us, she shrieked, “Aee! Aee! Chokrao,” but we knew it would be some time
before she would catch up with us, hobbling on her cane stick. We continued
picking a few lemons and then made off. Barefoot. Because I wasn’t sure if my
oversized Kolhapuris could keep up with my speed. The small sharp stones in
the red earth didn’t hurt our feet as we ran. We just ran and ran. We ran blindly
following each other, without a sense of the distance covered, without making
the decisions to change direction; we just ran and ran as if that was the only thing
to do, as if our very lives depended on it; we ran till our cheeks were so hot, they
burned to touch, till our pounding hearts threatened to burst, till we could not
speak anything for the want of breath. And then collapsed under Pia’s bungalow
gate listening to Megha’s rasping breath.
Pushing, jostling we burst inside the cool kitchen with the matka balanced
on the thick square of folded cotton. There were never enough glasses for all of
us and patience was hard to practice. “Jaldi, pi ne!” I would urge Pia’s elder
brother. As we drank thirstily, in loud gulps, we couldn’t even feel the taste of
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