Not burned. Not collapsed. Just… gone. As if it had never been. In its place stood a tall deodar tree, and nailed to it was a small metal plaque. Rusted. Faint.
“Baba,” she said. “Ek aur cup?” (Another cup?) Musafir Cafe -Hindi-
He didn’t answer. He just poured.
As she drank, she took a piece of charcoal from the stove and walked to the back wall. Below Rohan’s message, she wrote: Not burned
She looked at the walls. The messages. The harmonium. The woman in the red dupatta. in the pine
And somewhere—in the wind, in the pine, in the whistle of a distant bus—she heard Baba’s voice: