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"Santosh is one of the boys."

I looked at Papa in surprise. Shortly before leaving India, he and Caroline and I sat under the shade of the mango tree while he related to us the difficulties he was having with some of the adolescent boys. A group of them were going off to classes in the morning, but then sneaking back into the ashram shortly thereafter to play or nap. It had been occurring on a fairly regular basis, exasperating both Papa and the staff.

"Santosh?" I questioned. "He's been skipping school?"

"Hai, yes," Papa said. "I don't know what to do. We don't have enough people to watch every child every minute. I tell them they must get their education" He trailed off, raising his hands in a gesture of defeat.

I glanced at Caroline. Part of me wanted to laugh a little, at the image of this small band of renegade boys pulling a Huckleberry Finn to have a good time. But of course I did not want to make light of the problem, and was well aware of the importance of an education for all these kids. Their futures had been compromised enough with the odds they already had stacked against them: abandonment or orphanhood, poverty, caste. Without a good education the future grew much bleaker. It was their ticket out.

"Do you think I should talk to Santosh?" I asked both Caroline and Papa.

Papa nodded his head vigorously. "I have talked, and still they are doing this. He will listen to you."

I had halfway hoped Papa would decline my offer. Until then I had been the fun aunt who only had to play games and have a good time and bring treats. But it was a long-term relationship I had embarked on, not only with Santosh and Daina but with all the children, and Papa as well. I knew that going into it, and now the time had come for the aspect of the adult/guardian role that was not so fun the arm of discipline. I was going to have to be the bad guy.

Later that day there was a lull in the activities and I pulled Santosh aside for a quiet moment. His English had improved but was still limited, so I needed to make sure he understood. "How is school?" I began.

"Good."

"Do you study hard?"

"Yes."

"What do you want to be when you grow up?"

Santosh thought about this for a moment. "A dancer," he said. I suppressed a smile at the memory of him dancing in the mosh pit party when we'd first arrived. Like most children, his adult career plans changed with regularity; when I'd first met him, he wanted to be a painter. In one letter to me he'd written that he wanted to be a soldier when he grew up.

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