The women took turns with their shoulders as the pestle went in and went out of the hole.
The afternoons would resound with their thuds as we children closed eyes in pretended naps.
Later we moved out of the cloth cradle , passed the edge of the white wall and in due time hurled stones at hanging mangoes.
Now that we are old we take a soft sunday nap here by the window,our bones quiet in calcium, our heart a river.
Where we sit now is hardly difference. As the rice pounding is resumed and the shoulders take turns the pestle goes in and out the hole.
As the women talk the husk turns out to be life’s content.