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  • We were passing through the inner ways of Jamalpur, Ahmedabad. Mounds of earth hastily anointed with little green flags, lay cemented firmly into the ground, they formed a hurried cemetery all the way up to where Sugra biwi was sitting.

    I should have seen her when she was young, she said. Her daughter Nadira watched me with amusement from an inner room in the house. She got up from her cooking, brought out a tin box full of coloured-in photographs from the almirah and put them on the floor in front of me. Sugra biwi giggled, pointing at the string of pearls the 'photography walla' had put on her hair.
    A brood of children in the family crowded in at the doorway, blocking the light. Sugra biwi gave me a smile, grew quiet, looked away and counted the beads in her hands in starts again.

    Slice of life. Women stories (Take 1)
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