The silver box

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When our mother died, she was eighty years old. Since our father's death many years ago, she  had lived all by herself at 'Sridhaam', the old family house in Allahabad. She died in her sleep and in perfect health, her physician assured us. All of us – her five daughters, three sons and our families – gathered at the old house for the death rituals. Despite the mourning, it was a wonderful reunion. Sridhaam had space for us all, wrapping us in its familiar warmth, just as Amma had always done.

As the eldest, I took charge of the kitchen and the sleeping arrangements. It seemed to me like I slipped into her place as naturally as if I'd never left. My city-ways, my life in Washington, my work as a research analyst with the World Bank, fell away from me like a swiftly-fading dream, as I walked barefoot across the cool, polished cement floors, measuring out the day's rations from the store-room and calling out to the vegetable vendor in the street below.

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Himal Southasian
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