Collections

A car journey, a rainy Sunday, a night nobody has to be up early. These run nine to twenty-five minutes — long enough to get lost in.

It is 8:57. Every one of these is under 150 words and finishes before the yawning stops — including the best-scoring book in the library.

For the child who is definitely not sleepy. Moons, stars, and other people's bedtimes — all of which end in sleep whether they like it or not.

A farmer who cannot get a haircut, cannot give away his bananas, and cannot get any peace. Three stories, one very put-upon man.

Four books, one voice. Climbing up but not down, helping until asked to stop, and going out of the house alone in the dark.

One family through an Indian year — monsoon pakodas, autumn kheer, winter tea, and a summer falooda in Ooty. Five of the six; Hemant is still missing.

A little brother wonders. His big sister knows. Four questions about the sky, each answered twice — once with a wild story, once with the truth — and neither answer laughed at.

Nanis, Ajjis and grandfathers who lose their glasses, keep boxes of odd things, and always have time. Nani cannot find her glasses without her glasses — so she needs me.

Rhyme, nonsense and a cat who poops stories. These are the ones worth reading aloud when you are tired of reading aloud.

A woodcutter in Ethiopia, three wailers in China, a sparrow in Punjab. Six tales carried a long way, and the best-scoring shelf here.

The smell before the first drop, and everything that happens after — including the day it rained fish.

Food is the part of a culture a child already has in their mouth. A boy in Hyderabad cooks for forty people; a girl decides her parathas are the wrong lunch.

Nine real places, from a Ladakhi village where the road is too steep for a wheelchair, to a Manipuri kitchen, to the bat-makers of Kashmir.

Getting there is the whole story. A shy train, a Delhi auto with a very large family, and a car that Papa made for a birthday.