They say she’s gone. Then why do I see her, wherever I go? She is in that ‘baithak’ she always sat on. In her table fan, that seems to have given up the will to live, almost like it knows she’s gone. She is in that bedroom she always slept in. She’s in the silence that reigns the house now. She’s in the little flame that is alit beneath her bed. She’s in all the clothes she left behind. She’s in her spectacles and jewellery. She’s in the smell that emanates from her bed and her medicine box. She’s in the books and books she used to read. In the books she wrote in. She’s in the balcony chair she sat in. It has become old. Why did I never feel that she was getting old then? She’s in the little window that was her seat in the evening. She’s in the kitchen and all its drawers. She’s in the special delicacy she made and left behind for me. She made plenty of it, like always. Why does it seem like it’s far too less now? She’s in her favourite TV shows. She’s in the newspapers she will neve