I hug Amma―her back has been hurting her, yet she smiles through the pain. I’m reminded of the red brick wall in our yard, now parched of rain, cracking under the Chennai summer.
When I was young, she always said that she would love to grow old gracefully. But now, I wonder, does it mean dyeing one’s hair and having a face-lift to seem young, or does it mean going with the flow — ageing, like the stars in the sky — accepting that helping hand and holding on to the rails when climbing up the stairs?
the huge bronze bell
rings in autumn's depth . . .