The neighbourhood I lived in, called Race Course, was indeed a neighbourhood of all races, politically correct or not. Our neighbours, a Sikh family who had migrated from Pakistan after Partition, frowned at their new hilly surroundings, remembering their days in Punjab, while their children had no such apprehensions about the quiet hill-town, and often used to steal mangoes from the tree in our yard. The family opposite to our house, the Dharamshaktus, were upholders of their tradition of producing great lawyers, and their son was often seen fighting on the behalf of unwitting patrons at the local tea shop, haggling with the owner for two rupees. Caught between these lively neighbours, a herd of stray cattle occupying the cross-road, and the tea shop with its frequent political discussions, was my house. Unfortunately, our rather simplistic ways, normal lives and quiet existence didn’t quite fit in with the people of Race Course, who often used to come to our house, trying to write our story. Needless to say, my creative lies about our family history painted quite a picture for my neighbours, who finally accepted us as equally eccentric members of Race Course.