The child sits on the lapof his aunt, under the old tamarind treeoutside the family home.The tree stands still, quiet,indifferent. The house swayson stilts.Monks in saffron robesand nuns with shaved heads,lips darkened with betel-nut stain,sit chanting prayersfor the child’s mother.Incense perfumes the hot dry air.There emerges a strange familiar songbetween the child and his aunt that day —a distant one, melodic but harsh,as if the strings are drawn too tight —Each time the child hears prayerscoming from the house, he cries;each time he cries, the aunt, a girl herself,pinches the boy’s thigh.