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reena roy I did not know her name until after she died. Not until then. While she lived, I knew her as "Pishima," a word reserved for the sister of one's father. In the house where I lived, poor destitute widows having no place of honor in society, and no family they could call their own, were given the veneer of respectability when they answered to that esteemed addressing format. Each year she came to us softly, afraid even to wake the pink flowers blooming in the pomegranate groves, in the orchard behind the house; her eyes lowered in an obedient gesture. She always came alone and always after she had stayed in someone else's household for a few months. I did not know how long she stayed in other homes, or where those homes were, but when I was very young she came to stay in the house where I lived, for only one hundred days. Her visits to this household were always during the summer months, often when the monsoon was raging. Summer holidays drove the wealthy, delicate women of the family to the summer homes in the distant hills, while the men stayed in town
Frontiers: A Journal of Women Studies – University of Nebraska Press
Published: Jul 31, 2006
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