Mrs. T 



I understand why Mrs. T makes it a point 

to see the doctor—physicals and otherwise; 

it must be satisfying, getting to talk 

about her nausea, unfettered, about how it bloats 

her up and thumps at her epiglottis 

as if it’s a floodgate. 


At home, she lets her daughters stay just long 

enough for them to realize that they’ve let 

her down, but not long enough to make amends.


You can see it in her in-between smile that she’s as 

frail as china but as stubborn as her old bones 

that bend over backwards and yet hold her up.


Mrs. T has been your age and does not care for 

novelties; maybe she’s tired of comings and goings 

of things—or in things that come and go.


In her defense, the sour bread has always been sour 

and Jesus has always been kind to truants and followers 


Megha Saha is a 19-year-old first-year student at Gujarat National Law University. She hails from the busy, noisy city of Kolkata, India, yet has failed to make her peace with the tiresome humidity. She has sudden bouts of affection for sugary food and steaming-hot coffee.