The sound of the school bell rang, announcing the end of the last period and school day. Akshaya got up from the floor, picking up her bag and lunch basket. Fall had arrived, as the leaves crunched beneath her feet. It was a pleasant day, the air accompanied by a slight chill unlike the sticky humidity from the last few months. Akshaya and her sister Abinaya had recently transferred from a local government school to the all-girls convent. Walking down the corridor towards the main gate, Akshaya already felt wary of walking home alone. Abi had not come to school that day, and all the other girls in class had their parents or drivers to pick them up. She released a resigned sigh and started walking down the usual route. Tall coconut trees flanking her path on both sides, she slowly walked, her thoughts turning to her English teacher Ms. Ross. The woman was always at her case, making her sit separately from other girls, asking the school nurse to check for lice in her hair a...
Weavers, weaving at break of day, Why do you weave a garment so gay? . . . Blue as the wing of a halcyon wild, We weave the robes of a new-born child. Weavers, weaving at fall of night, Why do you weave a garment so bright? . . . Like the plumes of a peacock, purple and green, We weave the marriage-veils of a queen. Weavers, weaving solemn and still, What do you weave in the moonlight chill? . . . White as a feather and white as a cloud, We weave a dead man's funeral shroud. - Indian Weavers by Sarojini Naidu It’s a little after 4 PM in the evening when Suguna finally gets off the therai (loom) to make some tea for her husband. In a few more minutes, her children will return home from school and chaos will ensue. “I try and finish as much as I can before they come home. At 5 PM they will go to tuitions and I will get an extra two hours to sit and work on this saree today, before going back to cook dinner at...