Forever's No Time At All, by Daria; same disclaimer: 

	I feel a sickness in the pit of my stomach the like of which I have not felt
since the days I slept in the filthy, rat infested alleyways of Calcutta and
lived on whatever discarded crusts of nan I was able to find. On so many days
back then, my mornings began with a prayer to the gods to find it in their
plans for me to remove me from my plight, to help me find a life away from
those squalid streets, from the indignity of begging for subsistence when my
magic feats brought little change from the pockets of the tourists, from my
sore bare feet, from the beatings I suffered at the hands of men who made a
living by stealing from those weaker than themselves, and from the constant
grinding pangs of hunger in my belly. 

	In answer to my prayers, Dr. Quest rewarded me for being his angel of mercy
at the time he needed one most by adopting me and removing me from my horrid
existence. It never occurred to me in the four years since that I would ever
be expected to repatriate to India, for I had become as American as my family,
at least I believed myself to be. I have not considered my cultural difference
to be an obstacle to my Americanization, and the Quests have never treated me
as an outsider, while Dr. Quest has always taken great pains to reinforce my
pride in my culture. 

	From the moment Dr. Quest had it fixed in his mind that I would be his
adopted son, he has cared for me and loved me as a real father should, even
when it meant he had to openly fight those who opposed his wishes: the
magistrate in Calcutta who begrudgingly granted my adoption after several
hearings and needless delays, the customs officials who questioned my papers,
the Intelligence One agents who were suspicious of me and the bigoted comments
of people who pointed at me and stared at me as we traveled. There were hotel
reservations in places in America and Africa which were "canceled" upon our
arrival at the sight of me, and times when Dr. Quest bit back hard on his
anger and simply changed his plans rather than cause me embarrassment. And now
his parental authority is being challenged by someone who is an outsider to
our family, only this time the onslaught comes from one with the ultimate
authority over my being: my biological parent. 

	And for my part, I have just insulted the person who will forever be my link
to the lives of my grand and illustrious ancestors, the previous rulers of
Bangalore who have managed to hold on to this Princely State since the early
1800's, following the carnage of the wars between the British and the Moslem
from the lines of Moghul sultans. My mother carries with her the proud
heritage of her Asiatic people, for she is not a native of Bangalore. She is
the daughter of royalty from yet another region of India, betrothed to my
father, the much older Haresh, when she was a small girl. As was arranged in
her childhood, she married my father soon after her seventeenth birthday, and
in quick order she found herself to be with child and had to begin to plan for
the arrival of the heir to the throne. Still but a child herself, she took
care of her infant son and her ailing husband, putting aside any feelings of
unhappiness or longing for her life to follow a different path. She did as her
parents told her to do; she followed their rules and their designs for her
life. And now she expects that her son will do the same, and I have cut her
deeply with my outburst. 

	"Please, Mother; I need time to think!" I plead with her, though I can tell
she is not ready to hear more of this. "I...I...do not want you to think me
ungrateful. I am more happy than I have ever been to have found you, to know
that you are alive and well and that you care for me, but...I have been very
happy in my life in America. Never did I dream that I had a family, a parent
who loved me, a home...here in India. I am just not prepared to make such a
decision. Please..."

	"There is no decision to be made, Behkhadji. I am your mother, and you will
do as you are told. You have nothing to say about it." Her tone is not so much
harsh or angry as it is final, as that of a parent who has unquestioned
control and no need of anger would address a child who is normally obedient.
And she is calling me by my whole name, another long-established parental
marker.  I fear they must include this in a parenting manual secretly
transmitted amongst themselves, for I have often heard Dr. Quest resort to
cries of "Jonathan Douglas Quest" when my brother has been errant in his ways.

	"And have I anything to say about it, your highness?" asks Dr. Quest, who,
while trying to maintain a measured, reasonable tone has, at the same time,
reached up to take my shaking left hand in his, squeezing it gently to
transmit his silent message of courage and comfort. "You see, legally, I am
his parent, too, and I have been for four years. I know that's probably null
and void by Indian law now, but you must see the trauma and strain that so
many revelations in such a short period of time have put on the boy. Hadji
deserves a period of adjustment, and I'll promise you my full cooperation if
you'll at least allow him to vent his feelings about where he wants to live
and how he views his future. It seems only fair..."

	"Fair, is it, Dr. Quest?!" my mother starts in, for he has raised an issue
for which she will not sit quietly. "Do you believe it is fair for an outsider
to make decisions for another person's child? How would you feel if I made
decisions for your Jonny, there? Do you think it was fair that I was deprived
the right to nurture my son, to watch him blossom and grow for twelve years
while this... merchant... dragged him from city to city, depositing him in
horrible places and abandoning him in that filthy cesspool of Calcutta?" 

	Even Pasha's feelings can be hurt, though I've never seen the effects last
for very long. He takes offense to my mother's comments, saying, "Hey, wait a
minute, your highness! I didn't abandon him; he was canvassing for me! I
awarded him that whole sector of Calcutta as his sales area and made him a
district manager representing The Pasha Peddler, Incorporated (all rights
reserved; I got a poorman's copyright on the name, kid)!" He says the last
part sotto voce, then continues by gesturing in my mother's direction.
"Besides, when the kid said he didn't want to go to Agra, I honored his
wishes---not like the way you're tryin' to railroad him now! And as for the
rest of that, I COULD charge you babysitting services for all that time, since
what I was doin' was protecting him from those nasty relatives of yours with
the big knives, so don't be talkin' about me draggin' him
around...errr....ma'am." As if he were not in it deep enough, he turns to me
to add, "Hey kid, add up my fee: ten rupees an hour multiplied by twenty four
hours, times about seven years, give or take two or three, there, and add
compound interest of twelve percent annually!"

	Dr. Quest shoots a disapproving look at Jonny who is cheering Pasha on, then
his face drops into his hands as he tries desperately not to laugh, and even
my mother's facial expression has changed from one of astonishment to a
bemused smirk. "Quiet, you silly man, or I shall order the guards to introduce
you to the concept of hard labor. And if you dare charge me for babysitting I
shall have you charged with kidnapping and false imprisonment." Pasha opens
his mouth but thinks better of challenging her. Instead he looks at me
incredulously. "You didn't tell her about us being held in the stockades in
Kashmir and the caning and all, did you, kid? Man, you and I gotta have a
serious talk!"

(continued)