But her eyes. Her eyes were the same as they had been at nineteen. Curious. Alive. Rebellious.
She touched the silver bindi on her forehead. She touched the gold border of the saree. She thought of the old weaver in Yeola, dead now, who had poured his last months into this cloth. She thought of her daughter, three oceans away, who would open her parcel and smell the cardamom of Suhas Kala Mandir. She thought of her mother-in-law, who would probably clutch her pearls if she saw a widow in a Paithani.
And then she thought of nothing at all.
