She was always old.
Every day while returning from the school in my village, I saw her sitting out in the winter sun or just inside the door during summers—knitting, darning or stitching—always watching the road.
“She awaits her husband,” mother told me, “who went to work in a big city. He hasn’t returned in 40 years. She has a houseful of grandchildren but she watches the road for him like a deer caught in a mirage of water in the desert.”
The day she died, they say, they found her eyes open, still watching the road.
“So many stories are waiting to be told. So I hold my pen and let the stories write themselves.” – the writer