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Jani. The word meant ‘roots’ in Marathi. Meera almost laughed. Ritu, who had once refused to eat bhakri because it was “too rustic,” who had changed her name from Rituparna to Rita in tenth grade, was now asking for roots. Life, Meera had learned, was a boomerang of ironies.

And then she thought of nothing at all.

She had gone out looking for roots for her daughter. Instead, she had found a branch of her own, still green, still growing, still capable of blooming in the most unexpected shade of twilight blue. Ritu, who had once refused to eat bhakri

The woman staring back at her was not the bride of 1987. She was not the exhausted mother of two. She was not the grieving widow. She was sixty-two years old. Her hair was grey at the temples. There were lines around her eyes from crying and from laughing. Her hands were rough from chopping vegetables and from weaving dreams for the women at the NGO. She had gone out looking for roots for her daughter

She dressed quickly: a simple cotton kurta , grey leggings, her silver bindi —a tiny dot of defiance, because widows in her community weren’t supposed to wear bindis anymore, but she had decided she liked the way it anchored her face. She picked up her worn leather tote and stepped out. For a moment

She put the phone down, poured herself a glass of water, and walked to the balcony. The afternoon sun was beginning its lazy descent. The city of Pune hummed below her—the honks, the prayers, the laughter, the arguments. The chaos of life.

Suhas named a price. It was exorbitant. Meera had the savings, but it would take a chunk. For a moment, the old Meera, the accountant’s wife who had clipped coupons from the newspaper, hesitated.