All her fingers are a little twisted now. She might have gotten too involved as she kneaded the dough every morning to feed her seven children and now dead husband for so many years. Today when she holds an expensive glass in her hand , it looks a little out of place.
Her hair has been the same ever same ever since I remember her-salt and pepper, diligently oiled after every shampoo and neatly coiled in a bun. The parting in the middle makes her already big nose look comical. From where she is sitting the sun makes her heavy gold hoop earrings glimmer, the weight of which has stretched the holes in her lobes to make them look like mouths open in horror.
But she looks at me and smiles-a big yellow gap toothed smile. Daadi Maa is telling me one of her stories of childhood. I haven't heard this one before. In her excitement she spills a bit of her drink and promptly dabs her mustard colored handkerchief on her mustard colored salwar. She always matches the two.
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