The Maid’s Hands

Clink, clink, clink.

I watch her through the rising steam of my cup of chai.

She brings the pestle down again and again onto the small, round, red hot peppers being doomed to the destiny of powdery flakiness in the mortar. She sits on the floor, the gold bangles on her dark wrists gleaming in the midday sun streaming in through one of the kitchen windows. Continue reading