Many years ago, on a mild May afternoon, I walked towards Phuphee’s kitchen expecting her usual warm welcome. But on that particular day, I saw her outside standing over a kanz (a large mortar made of rock) with a muhul (a long pestle made from wood) in her hand, pounding away as if her life depended on it.

I waited in silence for her to look up, but she didn’t. So, I walked into the kitchen where Aisha, Phuphee’s household help, raised her eyes from the daan and greeted me. She took my bags and asked me to sit down. She poured a hot cup of kehwe from a large samovar and served it with some sheermaal (a savoury biscuit). I sat there eating and drinking, quietly wondering what Phuphee was up to. Aisha must have noticed me glancing out the window, so she said, ‘Aem nyu dilas pyeth [she has taken it to heart].’

I asked her what Phuphee had taken to heart. Aisha got up from the daan, poured herself a cup of kehwe and sat next to me. She narrated the awful story of Sameena.

Sameena was a woman who lived in the village. She had been diagnosed with a life-limiting illness. Unfortunately, she didn’t have very long left, maybe a few more months if she was lucky. She had three children, the youngest not yet 10 and the eldest still in secondary school. She lived with her husband, his........

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