Ankit decides to steal tuberoses from a grave. He needs flowers for his date.
The sky is gray with the promise of more rain. He should walk faster. But the roads are slick and he doesn’t want to eat shit.
He enters Goa’s oldest cemetery. The tombstones resemble waving hands. He waves back. He picks up a bouquet and, looking at the epitaph, says, “Thank you, Sonali Gonzales.”
A banyan thrives amidst the dead. He walks through the curtain of aerial roots and stands at the site of his first kiss. The smell of moss encloses him like a boil.
