The Distant Ghost
Act I Vimala Pillai’s hands were already black with soil, the dirt packed deep into the whorls of her palms as she drove the trowel into the root ball of the ancient mango tree. The light in the chawl courtyard was thick, the long dusk of high summer pressing against the corrugated tin roofs like a physical weight. She was looking for the sap, the clear, viscous fluid that pooled where the...
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