Jilly sat at the table as her father packed their few clothes into a suitcase, a battered old blue one with a broken doo-hickey on one end - duct tape worked just as well as getting a new suitcase , he had told her once. The can of tuna had been polished off. Her father had eaten one spoonful. He said he wasn't that hungry after his long day; he lied, she knew.   The candle flickered and stuttered, grew steady again.  “Are we going to Aunt Belinda’s?“  Aunt Belinda had a small house over...

The house was empty. The wake was over, and the guests had left. Jack had buried his mother. His father had gone a couple of years earlier. Now what? He kept thinking about the past. When he was a young adult and things seemed to be opening-up, before they all closed-off again as he got older. He had to get out. The mood in the old council house was all wrong and he felt like he was suffocating. Jack headed to the place where he always would start his escape as a teenager – Catford Bridge...

Sound The first time I draped the beige tussar silk saree, I had no premonition. Even when I ran my fingers across the embroidered flowers and paisleys on the dull gold of the coarse silk while adjusting the pleats, there were no whispers. The soft rustles were empty. Except for the mellow jingles of the gold butterfly danglers and bangles beneath the whirring fan, there was neither a sigh nor a chide. I had expected at least a rebuke. When nothing came drifting in the afternoon breeze, I...