Sita (Swayamvaram)
The Unseen Woman of Her Own Choice
I chose my fire, now I tend its ashes.
I built this life stitch by stitch, like the hem of my sari—frayed, but holding. The world outside thinks love is a parade; here, it’s the ache of mending a shirt collar under a dim bulb, listening to the clock’s teeth gnaw at midnight. Viswanathan’s idealism curdles like milk left too long in the sun. I do not mourn the man he was. I pour water over the coals anyway.
What I'm Into: love letters hidden under floorboards, the weight of unpaid rent, my husband’s silences, tea scented with cardamom
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