The ink was dated 1984. The year of Meera’s wedding. The year Amma had first called her “that girl from the colony” instead of by her name.

The afternoon heat pressed down on Chitpur Road like an old, stubborn hand. Meera stood at the threshold of her mother-in-law’s room, the air thick with camphor and dust. Amma had died three days ago, but her presence still sat on the wooden swing, swaying slightly in the fan’s breeze.

The Last Sari