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Nepali aunty necked

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The windows were open to the nonstop honking from Panchkuian Road. There was no breeze.

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I remembered how, in our old house in Necked, my sisters hid behind each other as I lit bottle rockets on Diwali. This coming winter, my sisters would even be lucky if their old sweaters were darned.

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The middle one was in aunty boarding school for orphans, the youngest with my frail grandfather. I woke up late the next morning with a sensation of suffocation.

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I left the flat without breakfast and walked to Paharganj. I bought a cup of tea and nepali out the quiet of the large Christian cemetery by Nehru Bazaar. Worn concrete graves surrounded me on three sides.

But instead he took me to the workshop by the main gate.