“She stopped greeting the sun in the mornings; she no longer offered flowers to her little brass murtis. She refused to wash the wares or tend to her fowl, neglected the laundry and her coconut broom. She spoke to no one except herself, and even then her words were mumbled and indecipherable to Om, who eavesdropped from the other side of the bedroom door. Om coped with Chandani’s neglect the only way he knew how: he delegated her tasks to Vimla. But on the third evening Chandani shut herself up ...in their bedroom, Om roused her gently from beneath the coverlet. “Chand, I working real hard all day, and three days I come home to Vimla’s burn-up roti. Get up, nuh, Chand, and cook something nice for me.” He rubbed his massive belly with a callused hand. Chandani had drawn the curtains, but the relentless tropical sun shone through in faint beams of watercolour yellow, a spotlight for dancing dust particles and buzzing flies. She lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, her hands folded neatly over her stomach.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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