Reba sat in her usual place in a chair next to the bride. Her head was bent over the list she held in her palm; accounts of gifts and givers. Rows of names neatly recorded against each gift, in her pearl-like handwriting. She had done this innumerable times, at every family wedding.
Writing Away to a Place Within Me
I was a lonely child who read Enid Blyton sitting under a guava tree in our rambling house in Calcutta, India.