In the evening the women sit in groups ,at the doorways and in the streets

They sit in decorated doorways with dried mango leaves hanging over them. Some sit on the steps below ,their palms burnt by the sun’s heat which had accumulated in the cement step during the day.

Their narratives are long-winded and loosely connected as if the beginning ,the middle and the end are independent of one another.

The narratives are connected in a straight line of time with the effect tracing back to the cause,not flowing from it.

The evenings are endless and remind them of the other evenings when something had happened.

These days nothing happens and the evenings are consequently mere summaries of what had happened then.

Summaries which turn out to be tiny screen-plays with dialogues played out between imaginary characters.

Sometimes the w omen’s eyes flash,their hands fly in the air.

At other times they cry in their hearts and wipe a tear , with their saree-ends, from their swollen eyes as if a dust particle has entered their eyes .

The sky above the opposite unfinished house is slowly reddening and the last crow is preparing to leave the coconut tree for the day.


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