It has been three years. The distance has turned me into a tourist in my own backyard. I take the lane that zigzags through our village, hugging the houses in the most haphazard way. Nothing meets at right angles here—not even conversations.
It’s quiet except for the shrieking blue sky and the crackle of timbre the wind carries uphill. And an occasional sliver of ash.
Laxmi is tending to her roses.
All alone? I ask her after she returns my namaste like strangers discard smiles in the city.
I don’t mind, she says, straightening up. My son’s big house doesn’t suit me. What more do I need? I have them, she points to the roses, and this temple I built in my husband’s memory. I light the lamp twice daily - 6 am and 6 pm.
Can I take a photo?
She blushes. Me? Why? I’m all wrinkles and wounds. She puts her foot out and points to her middle toe. There’s a bulbous beetle like protrusion — angry and crusty, ready to crack and ooze pus.
Death should come in one go. Not like this. Laxmi says.
My eyes are fixed on her blackened toe.
Have you seen a doctor?
They say I must control my sugar. Or they will chop off my leg. I won’t allow that. What to do? I have to eat. Even if it is one roti. It’s my leg that hurts. Not my belly. Belly needs food.
Laxmi’s grey hair, ash crusted, is back lit against the goldening sky.
Forest fires! She says, these contractors burn our Deodars, plant apple orchards. There is no jungle left for our leopards.
I think I hear mother’s voice. I turn. No one.
Arti Jain is a poet, an award-winning spoken word artist, and an author. She lives in Doha and is at work on a memoir, for which she was named a 2026 HWR Khozem Merchant Non-fiction Fellow. You can find her on Instagram: @arti.a.jain and her work on her website: https://arti-jain.com.
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