While the lady of the house shed those final tears of parting, sitting next to the corpse that was once her husband, a car whizzed inside the compound of the ancestral bungalow. The woman in black led the young boy towards the room where his father lay permanently asleep. Seeing her sister shattered and motionless on the bedside she screamed out in grief, “How could this have happened to us, to us?” she howled.
I stood there grief stricken myself. It was indeed heart breaking to see a loved one suffer the consequences of impermanence. With this brief display of sorrow, the woman clad in black regained her composure and swerved towards the kitchen. Within no time she was the mistress in control. Not just for that moment, that day, that week but for all the times to come. The transformation was but appalling.
Many years hence, those few seconds of collective grief is all that remains. The voices that echoed in the hollow corridors long forgotten.
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