They were reading poetry, the English kind.It was exhausting, and the Miss wouldn’t take a break. Meera scratched her palms yet again. She was having an itchy palm all morning. Ma said itchy palms were an indication of becoming rich. Of incoming money. The itchier the palm, the more the money. Of course, she didn’t believe in all this superstitious crap – it just gave you ridiculous hope about nothing – but she certainly liked the prospect of getting richer. You couldn’t blame a thirteen-year-old from a small village (a blip really) dwelling in the shadows of Mumbai for her chest swelling with fizzy tingles bubbling from her tummy at the possibility of quick money, could you?! But was that happening? No! All-day, she was stuck at this stupid School At Your Door with poems. And the English onesmade her cringe. They were like the dark alleys of the village – an endless abyss of some kindshe shouldrun…