Stories By 'Kabita Sen'
After my Aabai, my grandma’s mother, died, I have been tending the plants of her mini-garden on the terrace. Aabai traded guavas, plums, and pomegranates with the nearby construction workers in return of empty cement bags. In those bags, she planted cucumbers, tomatoes, cauliflowers, and spinaches.
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MARGARET

Kabita Sen, Nov 04 2018

Every time I sit down to write you a letter, she asks me about your return. And every time, I have no answer. To console her heart, and mine, I tell her that her father will come home soon. I don’t tell her that the war has raged more fire than anyone could have anticipated.
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I drew the curtains and opened the windows to take in the world. There was nothing to see through the perfect darkness outside. There was no sound save the rustling of the leaves and the whispers of the wind. I enjoyed the silence and never felt lonely in that solitude. In fact, in the dead of night when everything was still, was the only time I felt at peace. So every 3 am rather than sleeping, I pored over my books or stared out into the darkness from my window.
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