“Your man died and you are washing clothes?”
Vimla’s tinkling glass bangles stilled. She straightened. “I sent the girls to pay their last respects.”
“But what about you? He was after all your man…”
“He stopped being my man the day he threw me and my four daughters out.” Vimla’s eyes shot sparks. “You expect me to mourn for him, don a widow’s attire, break these bangles? Why should I when my real man is still by my side?”
Babel broke out.
“My trusted companion,” Vimla pointed, “the one who clothed us, fed us and educated my daughters.”
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