I hear burhiya sigh and sit down heavily on her rocking chair outside. This might be my only chance to get out unseen.

I take soft, deliberate steps till I reach the dining room, and push open the door that Mister Mystery banged shut on his way out.

It creaks a lot louder than I'd expected. Which is funny, because I visit burhiya at least 5 times a day. I guess things seem different when you're trying to be stealthy.

"Kaun hai?" ("Who's there?") calls out burhiya from inside, and I stop dead in my tracks.

"Mai hu amma," ("It's me, amma,") I respond.

"Kya hua?" ("What happened?")

"Uhh..." I try to think of an excuse. "Aapne rasmalai kha li kya? Ma ne katori wapas mangayi hai." ("Did you have the rasmalai yet? Ma has sent me to bring the bowl back.")

"Rasoi mei hogi. Le ja." ("It's in the kitchen. Take it.")

"Theek h-" ("Oka-")

"Aur sun, apni ma ko boliyo neeche aake mujhse mile. Kuchh baat karni hai." ("And listen, tell your ma to come down and meet me. I need to talk to her about something.")

My eyebrow has probably shot up in a very Cartoon Network way, but all I say is "Theek hai amma," ("Alright amma,")  as I grab the katori and make my way out.

What could burhiya want to speak to ma about? I just hope it has nothing to do with Mister Mystery. He seems like bad news.

The pain I'd forgotten about in the excitement comes coursing back when I try to go upstairs again. But this time, I can figure out where exactly it hurt: my left shin. Should've known.

In the end, I ended up leaning heavily on the wrought-iron handrail, hopping up each step on my one good leg. It takes time, yes, but I make it there eventually.

I find ma on the terrace, hanging clothes out to dry. I make sure not to go too close, or she'll see I'm hurt and spend the next 36-48 hours worrying and fussing over me. It's very unnecessary.

"Ma, amma ne aapko neeche bulaya hai," ("Ma, amma has called you downstairs,") I say, still on the staircase, completely hidden from her view.

Her brow crinkles up. "Kyu?" ("Why?")

"Pata nahi," ("I don't know,") I shrug.

"Oh. Aur tujhe chot kaise lagi?" ("Oh. And how did you get hurt?")

My mouth hangs open. "Aapko kaise-" ("How did you-")

"Ma hu teri," ("I'm your mother,") she cuts me off. "Sab jaanti hu." ("I know everything.") Classic mom statement.

"Amma bula rahi hain," ("Amma's calling you,") I remind her again.

"Haan haan, ja rahi hu. Tu tab tak haath-paon dhokar lep laga." ("Yeah yeah, I'm going. Till then, wash up and apply some balm.")

I just sigh and nod.

***

By the time I've managed to wash up, ma's already back. My heart skips a beat when I notice she looks disturbed. The colour has drained from her face, and she's so lost in thought that she walks into the house with her slippers still on, something I've been scolded for at least a thousand times.

"Kya hua?" ("What happened?") I ask.

It seems to shake her from her reverie. "Tu bata, tujhe kya hua?" ("You tell me, what happened to you?") she says, going into the kitchen. There, she starts making a fresh batch of her homemade medicinal balm.

"Zyada kuchh nahi, bas gir gayi." ("Nothing much, I just fell down.") Gross understatement.

"Madam chal nahi pa rahi, aur kehti hai 'bas gir gayi,'" ("Madam here isn't able to walk, and says 'I just fell down.'") she huffs.

"Arrey ma, itni chinta na kar." ("Don't worry so much, ma.")

"Tu toh rehne hi de. Poore din bahar ghumti rehti hai, aur phir chotein lagakar ghar wapas aati hai." ("You just stay quiet. Roam around outside all day, and then come back home all hurt and broken.") She's positively angry now. I stay quiet as she brings out the balm in a katori and starts applying it on my shin.

Wait, how did she know where I was hurt? Eh, I know better than to ask.

***

Thanks to ma's magic potion, I'm much better in just a few hours. I'm able to move around much more easily, and can even manage a stair or two.

As for ma's little chat with burhiya, she won't tell me about it. Everytime I try to ask, she deflects. At one point I just give up altogether.

She's out right now, on one of her washing rounds. It took me forever to convince her I won't die if left alone for an hour or so, and she gave in in the end.

Since I have nothing better to do, and have been bursting to tell him what all I saw downstairs, I call up Vikram.

"How ya doin'?" is the first thing he says.

"Ma ne lep laga diya." ("Ma applied her balm.")

"Ahh, phir toh kood rahi hogi." ("Ahh, then you must be jumping.")

I laugh. "Almost. Achha sun, you'll never believe what happened..." And so I narrate the entire incident to him, with proper dramatic effects. (Achha sun: Hey, listen)

"Question, who owns your building?"

"Amma."

"Sure?"

"Sure."

"Okayyy," he drags the word, and I can tell his mental gears are whirring.

The rest of the evening we spend making pointless speculations about it all. The least it does is calm my nerves a little.

I only end the call when I hear ma is back, signalled by the creak of the rusty garden gate downstairs.

I'm alarmed when I hear her running up the stairs. On her way inside, she slams the door behind her, and sits down in a heap, spilling all her washing. She's panting, and her expression is one of pure shock.

"Ma?" I ask, limping towards her. "Kya hua?" ("What happened?")

"Khidki se dekh, koi aa toh nahi raha?" ("Look from the window and tell me, is anyone coming this way?")

"Huh? Aapke peechhe kaun aa raha hoga?" ("Huh? Who'd be coming after you?")

"Tu bas chup-chap check karke bata." ("Just shut up and check, please.")

And so I check. "All clear," I declare. She collapses down on the ground in relief.

"You okay ma?" No answer. "MA? Bata na kya hua?" ("MA? Tell me what happened?")

"Sab baatein bachchon ke liye nahi hoti." ("Children needn't concern themselves with every single thing.") Her tone implies that follow-up questions would not be welcomed.

"I'm not a kid, ma." I huff in annoyance. Still on the ground, she laughs an unusually dry laugh.

If something is bothering her, I need to know. I try changing my tactic. "Don't you think I should know for my own safety? Like, what if I met that man somewhere on the streets?"

"Oh, right. About that, you're not going to step outside the house for a month, okay?"

"WHAT?! WHY?!"

"Bas keh diya na." ("My word is final.")

I turn towards the door. "Mai abhi ja rahi hu." ("I'm going right now.")

"KIRTI!" she yells and sits up. I stop in my tracks. Then she sighs and pats a spot next to her, and I sit down cross-legged.

"Batati hoon," ("I'll tell you,") she begins. "Kuchh log burhiya ki property ke peechhe pade hue hai, and they want us out of the way too." ("Some people are after burhiya's property, and want us out of the way too.")

I don't know how to react to that, so I settle for a simple "Oh."

It does make me reconsider Vikram's question about the house though.

Ma gets up and goes inside. "A month is way too long, ma. You know I have school and work," I call out behind her back. I'm greeted with no response.

I really hope she doesn't follow through with this new rule of hers.