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She was not afraid of breaking anymore. After all, even a doll that shatters leaves behind a thousand pieces of light.
Every evening, Venkat would sit at his wheel, and Malli would perch beside him, threading jasmine buds into chains. “Appa,” she said one night, as the moon turned the river into molten silver, “why do people stare at me and sigh?”
And back in Nagalapuram, Malli sat by the river, her feet in the water, humming the old tune that the village women sang while kneading clay: “Butta bomma, butta bomma—break me, and I’ll still bloom.”
