I was so excited to work with Serena on this and on how she came about this story. It left me with chills with it's quick reflexes, sharp descriptions and mighty ending. She was so wonderful to work with me even as she moved across the world to her teaching position in Africa. Thank you so much Serena! And we hope you keep in touch here!

Draft One: Just A Baby
by Serena Alibhai

When Purab was seven years old he peeked through a slightly ajar door. He thought it was odd that his mother sat naked in her boudoir, wearing her night shoes, and that his uncle stood over her. She was crying, and that was the last time he ever saw her that sad, because soon after she died.

At her funeral, his uncle held his hand like a steel clamp as they made their way to her grave in the rain. Purab's right side dripped with cold water since his uncle jerked on the umbrella every time he took a drag of his cigarette.

Everyone looked at Purab; especially his father, who stood alone, in the distance, leaning on a tree. Smoke spiralled up like snakes from the incense sticks despite the rain. Men stood strong as their wives held on to them. His father left halfway through without kissing Purab goodbye. "Glad to see you leave brother," his uncle muttered, "Couldn't even keep your own wife."

After the ceremony, women with plastic bonnets and muddy shoes told Purab, "you call, dear child, if you need anything," and "be strong," and "pray, okay?" Then they would shake their heads and stare as if looking into the dying eyes of a run-over dog. On his tenth birthday, Purab phoned one of those ladies to ask for a new pair of runners. She hung up on him. He called another. She said, "Sure, dear!" He never received anything.

By the time he turned seventeen, with the help of his new friends, Purab had found a way to answer his own prayers.

"Why don't you rob your uncle?" Parikshit, his new best friend, suggested. He took a swig from his bottle of beer.

"Well, he did help me after my mother died, after all," Purab said, lighting a cigarette.

"He did not," Parikshit said, cleaning beneath his fingernails with a jackknife. "You had to raise yourself – like all of us," he said. He raised his chin to the boys sitting in the outdoor bar. "He abused you. I say rob him."

Purab thought about his uncle. Then he thought about how beautiful his mother had been.

They wore black facemasks.

When they crept into the window, Purab's uncle was sleeping peacefully. There was a woman sleeping beside him. Her belly, the size of a watermelon, rose and fell in jerks. On the table was his wallet, a pack of cigarettes, some large condoms, a pocketknife and some slivered beetle nuts.

"You were right, he does look like a devil," Parikshit joked, opening the wallet. "Don't just stand there! Go ahead, take a look around," he whispered. Purab nodded.

Purab wandered into the kitchen. There was a straw basket on the ground, next to a case of beer and a bag of diapers. He poked the blue blankets inside the basket and was surprised when he heard a squeak. He moved a blanket to one side. His face softened.

When he got back to the bedroom, Parikshit was smiling and the woman's wrists and ankles were taped up.

"He's still sleeping, can you imagine?" Parikshit said, placing thick silver tape over her mouth and nose.

"You'll kill her," Purab said, "Don't cover her nose. Just the mouth."

Parikshit ripped off a thick piece tape and smiled. Tears ran down the woman's face. Purab's uncle slept. His mouth was open and some saliva dripped down his cheek into his ear. "Wanna bet he's having good dreams?" said Parikshit, climbing out of the window.

Purab ran to the kitchen. He lifted the basket, put two bottles of beer inside and met Parikshit outside.

"Are you crazy?" Parikshit asked, looking inside the basket.

"Oh, I forgot something that I'll need," Purab said, running back inside. "Wait for me!"

Parikshit was left staring into the basket.

He came back, a blue bag of diapers under his arm, and away they ran into the night.

* * *

It's so exciting for you to be going to Africa!!! Tell me some more about that...
I currently teach at the Iringa International School. When I come home from teaching, my room is clean and food is cooked by our Chef/Organizer, Rahema. Teaching is great and my students are precious gorgeous creatures. Sometimes, they give me splitting headaches.

Where are you from originally and where did you grow up?
I'm Canadian. I was born in Vancouver, B.C. and then lived in Calgary until my university days when I moved to Montreal.

What was your first job?
My first job was taking care of my baby brother. Once, after I'd put him to bed, safely in his crib, I found him, in diapers, talking to a group of older grade fivers at the school bikeracks. That was when he was about four years old. The naughty little thing had escaped.

Do you have a writing schedule? Mornings, eves, sporadic?
I used to be regular. It was always the evenings. Now, since I'm in Africa, it's more sporadic, but still mostly evenings. That would be morning, your time.

Any pets? Kids? Loves?
I love my sweet cat Jaya. She's back home in Canada.

Favorite books?
The Rice Mother by Rani Manicka.

Do you watch television?
Hardly. But I used to like the Food channel, Orange County Choppers on Discovery channel, Oprah (sometimes - none of that pop star challenge crap), Bravo.

How did you come up with this story?
It was inspired by the movie 'Raising Arizona'.

Now, onto the writing! You totally changed this opening…I love the editing you did here. In the final you add much more detail to this moment and really zero in on Purab realizing pain and being too small to change things... I like how you described the scene in the final draft to put us with Purab in more exact terms. How did you decide what to cut?
This paragraph was what started the whole story. It's the idea of a beautiful woman, a sexual female, who is a mother also. I mention Purab's age because his growth is quantitative - it happens at a certain age. I think it's interesting that Purab lost his mother just at the moment when she may have died as a mother and existed as a 'sexual female'.

The comments in the final draft during the funeral scene seem to pack more of a punch than they do in the first draft…although this one explains a little more as it has more dialog…I don't think you need an explanation really and that you cut precisely! How did you decide to change the dialog here?
I went through a lot of drafts here. I wanted the uncle to speak more - so I cut his dialogue and offered a vision of him instead! A picture paints a thousand words . . so I tried to paint a picture of the Uncle rather than telling the reader exactly what he thought.

I love the 'less is more' approach you took here as well with what happens immediately after the funeral. In the final you have Purab ask for stuff right at the funeral, right to the people's faces, which I think gives him a tough edge. Even though in this first draft the women seem cruel and knowing of his mothers' sleeping around and shows them only being polite at the funeral…the final draft actually keeps focus on Purab. Nice work! I liked this scene of him being hung up on…must have been hard to take out…???
This was difficult to take out, but I wanted to focus on my characters - also I wanted to keep the piece short. I think that the 'ladies' represent society so they are valuable to this story - but just not this particular version.

In the final you give us more of a picture of how Purab turned out as he got older. How did you reach the conclusion to describe it as you did?
As I felt closer to the character of Purab, I was able to write his character more definitively. I think this happens when you are excited to write drafts and be alone with them. You've got to be attached - 'in love with', on some level, with your piece - your characters - your story.

In the final you have his friend say 'he only made you worse.' When referring to Purab's Uncle. LOVED that! Why/how did you opt to remove 'he abused you' for the final?
I put myself into the mouth of Parikshit and thought about how a young thug would express himself. I don't think a young abused boy would think about 'abuse' - he wouldn't see himself as a victim - these boys were too resourceful to see themselves as victims.

This is awesome…we see him consider things…and then boom!…they are wearing facemasks...
A few readers thought that his decision should have been more spelled out. But I believe just the vision of his mother's beauty would make his decision easy.

What are slivered beetle nuts?
They are a hard woody sort of nut that is hard enough to break your teeth. The word is that it will turn your blood into water. It's eaten as a digestive in Asian countries. It's not healthy. Some even consider it a mild drug.

I like how you kind of shifted the final ending around...with more surpise and yet adding order…how did you work that out?
I remember sitting with this last part (endings are my weak point) for a while one evening. This was what later I figured must have been subconsciously influenced by 'Raising Arizona'.

* * *

As you will see, endings are NOT Serena's weak point. She did an amazing job to tell us a story so swiftly and yet we know the details in what she's given us. I found her editing superb and to the point and very tactful and thoughtful. She made a commitment to the story and it shows.

Here is the Final Draft:

Just a Baby
(Final Draft)

Purab was seven years old when he realized two things - he could recognize the pain of others, and he was too small to change things. One evening, when a rumbling in his tummy took precedence over bedtime rules, he drifted to his mother's room. Through the mosquito net, he remembered a dismal vision of his mother, sitting naked on her bed, wearing her night shoes, with his uncle towering over her. It was the last time he saw her weep, because soon after she was gone.

At her funeral, his uncle held his hand like a steel clamp as they made their way to her grave in the rain. Purab's right side became drenched with tears from above since his uncle lopsidedly held the umbrella and his cigarette.

Everyone looked at Purab; especially his father, who stood alone, in the distance, leaning on a tree. Smoke spiralled up like snakes from the incense sticks despite the rain. Men stood as strong as their wives held on to them. His father left halfway through without kissing Purab goodbye. "He's selfish and deserves to die," his uncle explained, watching his brother leave, "your mother didn't love him. She loved me."

After the ceremony, women with plastic bonnets and muddy shoes shook their heads and stared at Purab as if looking into the dying eyes of a run-over dog. Purab tried asking them for things like new runners, or notebooks in the years that followed, but his requests proved fruitless.

By the time Purab turned seventeen he could talk back to his elders and learned how to swear so efficiently, that the words formed daggers mid-air and could incise a gut. According to his new friends, what was illegal paid the most money. The leader of his gang was Parikshit.

"Why don't you rob your uncle?" Parikshit suggested. He took a swig from his bottle of beer.

"Well, he did raise me, after all," Purab said, grabbing a swig for him self.

"He didn't raise you," Parikshit said. He cleaned beneath his fingernails with a jackknife. "You raised yourself – like all of us," he said. He raised his chin to the boys sitting in the outdoor bar. "He only made you worse. I say rob him."

Purab thought about his uncle. Then he thought about how beautiful his mother was.

He was convinced.

They wore black facemasks.

When they crept into the window, Purab's uncle was sleeping peacefully. There was a woman sleeping beside him. Her belly, the size of a watermelon, rose and fell in jerks. On the table was his wallet, a pack of cigarettes, some large condoms, a pocketknife and some slivered beetle nuts.

"You were right, he does look like a devil," Parikshit laughed, opening the wallet. "Take a look around if you want," he said. Purab nodded.

Purab wandered into the kitchen. There was a straw basket on the ground, next to a case of beer and a bag of diapers. He poked the white blankets inside the basket and was surprised when he heard a squeak. He moved a blanket to one side. His face softened. He walked back to the bedroom.

"He's still sleeping, can you imagine?" Parikshit said, rummaging for jewellery. The woman awoke. Parikshit pressed his palm over her face.

"You'll kill her," Purab said, "Don't cover her nose. Just the mouth."

Tears ran down the woman's face. Purab's uncle slept. His mouth was open and some saliva dripped down his cheek into his ear. "Your uncle's probably having good dreams," Parikshit said, nodding to the smile on the sleeping man's lips before he headed outside.

Purab said, "Wait for me, brother. I've got to take something that's mine."

"Sure, I'm just going to tape her mouth," said Parikshit.

Purab ran to the kitchen. He lifted the basket, put two bottles of beer inside and met Parikshit outside. The basket made a clinking sound.

"Are you crazy?" Parikshit asked, looking inside the basket with wide eyes.

"Oh, I forgot something that I'll need," Purab said, running into the house. "Stay right here!"

He returned with the bag of diapers, and away they dashed into the night.

* * *

Thank you so much, Serena, and best of luck with your writing career!