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May 2020

Browsing

Somewhere in Madras Presidency, sometime before the ̐Channar revolt, the twin-conical fabric sat on the coir bed way before the bride entered the room. ‘Could be a bit large,’ the man thought, as he took them. He caressed the right cone, then the left. Jolting as if hit by instincts, imagining the weight, the burden that cloth would have to bear, he walked to the window where the full-moon ripped the dark sky, inspected them again, plucked off small protruding pieces of thread from the sides, and watched every stitch closely until the doors behind him opened with a gentle sweeping swoosh. The man and his wife had been neighbours, childhood friends, and had even married each other umpteen times during their childhood plays. But, then she was seventeen and really married to him. Seventeen was too late for any girl to get married, but she was determined that she…