Sum­mer in Madras

Domus - - CONFETTI -

Ev­ery­one in the house is dy­ing.

Mother in an air-con­di­tioned room can­not hear as rivers break their dams against her nerves. Fa­ther stalks ve­ran­das, of­fer­ing pieces of his skin to the rows of lurid gul­mo­hars. Hus­band tries to still the ad­vanc­ing armies of the past by stuff­ing his ears with des­ic­cated mango husks. And brother? Brother is most lack­adaisi­cal of all.

He opens the door. Takes death’s um­brella. Taps it this way and that. Sings.

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