A fistful of chamomile

Boju accepted my flowers, lovingly took me in her arms, smiled and said, “Nati…my dear nati. You are my favourite person in the whole wide world.”

Boju looked at the clock once again with mechanical tediousness, slightly agitated, with her forehead creased like an ancient origami. She sat down by the window next to the veranda, clasping a porcelain cup my late grandfather had brought from Paradesh . She had finished her tea long ago, before her current perplexing uneasiness, yet she held onto the cup with tenacious optimism. “ Ama , do you want more tea?” my mother asked. My grandmother shook her head. “If I drink too much tea, I’ll get gastritis,” she said. For now, the dusty roads of our little village are an audience to her unanswered longing.