During her last days, granny was busy at her garden—de-weeding, furrowing, and planting nice rows. The day she died, I found an okra pair on the table, freshly picked. Okra yang was whispering, “She joins her yang, twenty years late.”

I laid the okra pair above granny. Two shoots emerged.

Mandira Pattnaik writes stories documenting the people and atmosphere from her country of origin India. Her work has been accepted at The Times of India, Commuterlit, Cabinet of Heed, Spelk, and Fiction Berlin, among others.

See more of Mandira's work in 8.2