Supposing I became a chanpa flower, just for fun, and grew on a
branch high up that tree, and shook in the wind with laughter and
danced upon the newly budded leaves, would you know me, mother?
 You would call, "Baby, where are you?" and I should laugh to
myself and keep quite quiet.
 I should slyly open my petals and watch you at your work.
 When after your bath, with wet hair spread on your shoulders,
you walked through the shadow of the champ tree to the little court
where you say your prayers, you would notice the scent of the
flower, but not know that it cane from me.
 When after the midday meal you sat at the window reading
ramayana, and the tree's shadow fell over your hair and your lap,
I should fling my wee little shadow on to the page of your book,
just where you were reading.
 But would you guess that it was the tiny shadow of your
little child?
 When in the evening you went to the cow shed with the lighted
lamp in your hand I should suddenly drop on to the earth again and
be your own baby once more, and beg you to tell me a story.
 "Where have you been, you naughty child?"
 "I won't tell you, mother." That's what you and I would say
then.