There is no odour of rotting stems or leaves, though some sit dried up in a vase on the table.

The sight of the dried flowers in the vase disgusts me. A young warrier ant crawls out of a carnation, meandering over Mariamma‚Äôs table as I wait for lunch. Whatever hue of green the stems once were, they are now subdued, like faded wall paint. The sunflowers, once a golden yellow, rest as a repelling ochre-brown, the petals curling and stiff.. I have a sudden urge to feel the crackle of the petals under my fingers, but I fear they might crumble in my hand and onto the table, leading Mariamma into a fit of diatribe. Continue reading “Mariamma”