Read by Anoushka Deshmukh (third story in podcast, here)
Tonight, again, Madam cannot sleep because of the rustling. Because Madam doesn’t sleep, I can’t sleep. She pulls me from my cot — a meagre straw thing pushed to the furthest corner of her bedroom — and wraps my fingers around the pinta broom. We keep the broom inside now.
Downstairs, she says.
Downstairs is the kitchen, which is where I slept before Madam got the way she is now.
A man is downstairs. A man has gotten into the kitchen because Madam left the downstairs window open, hoping that a breeze will flit its way in and soothe the overheating of ancient womanhood.