noon, winter.

Her knees creak loudly in protest. She uses her hands to push herself up, straightens her back for only a second before she has to bend to pick up everything else. In that second, she breathes deeply. She picks up fifteen rupees’ worth of spinach, a knife, a cutting board and a bowl. She totters out the back door to her six feet by four feet back yard. She looks up and smiles briefly at the sun. It had been two weeks since the sun has bothered to peek out into the world. She sits down on a cushion, stretches her legs out (her knees creak audibly again) and cutting board on her lap, she starts to cut spinach. 

It is a job that doesn’t require any skill whatsoever. She picks up a large clump of spinach and holds it together on the board with her left hand. With her right, she chops and shreds with all the might her blunt knife can offer her. She’s done in around three minutes. She puts all the cut spinach in the bowl next to her and calls out loudly. A young boy puts his head out into the back yard, takes the bowl from off the floor and disappears. She has a smug smile on her face. She goes back inside when the wind starts to blow the warmth of the sun out. Soon, her bones have forgotten warmth.

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