India, May 17 -- All she needed was a dupatta to put over her face. And then, Shobha, my mother could sleep anytime, anywhere. The dupatta was always white, even when her husband was alive.

She was on the bed placed in the long verandah when I entered. Her translucent face was covered. I think she was born wrinkled. She lived with the middle son and made it a point never to inform when she would be coming. I had once dared to ask her why her visits were always a surprise. Shocked, she had said, "Why would I bother to inform?" What followed was a long session of abuses in Punjabi, directed at no one in particular. The middle brother had often asked her why she made so many trips to my house, considering there could hardly be any communica...