Tuesday, August 25, 2009


She mostly spoke in whispers, not wanting to offend with the sound of her voice. Her shoulders were perpetually hunched, so as to not take up too much room. Sorry, she said, before starting any sentence. Sorry, but I think you're stepping on my sari. Few knew the colour of her eyes; she rarely, if ever, made eye contact. Only the fish mongers in the bazaar loved her. She never haggled when they quoted their price, but only pursed her lips, and twisted her handkerchief around her fingers, before nodding slowly. It took them two weeks to notice she was missing. And another four days to find out that she was dead. Even her decomposing corpse didn't reek. Under her bed, they found box after box of handwritten manuscripts. Poems, stories, fragments of conversations overheard, long rambles on life, love and longing. Who knew she had so much to say, they murmured, shaking their heads.