Ritu Bhatia


In the middle of a dream I am being roused: 'Shruti ... Shruti ... ' My name sounds like a wail. Above mine, an ancient face leans, with eyes that have been sucked into their sockets; cheeks, caved in. A frayed hand grips my shoulder and shakes it hard: 'Shruti, Shruti ... I forgot my medicines ... '



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