A man crouches under his low roof.

"Bring me the leaves. I've put the kettle upon the fire. And I want my tea! Where do you have to go? Where would you take the goats Kamala? Bring me the leaves and forget them! Don't you know the forest burnt down two summers ago?"

And mother rambles, peeling potatoes. She rambles about the year of China-war.
"Young brides pulled out their's gold and left their's nose, their's ears, neck and wrists, ankles and waist sore. Bare with nothing.
By the temple of Jhula
Where truckloads left homes,
They stood wailing in each other’s arms,
Knotting their father's gifts
In cotton sheets, hoping
Their men would be warm in the frontier snow

And remembering them.

next: ungrown