The accountant in me still flinches when the dates scroll past on the television, thinking of the sheer cost in ledgers beyond rupees. My cousin's son, a fine boy, still writes letters from his post in Dras; his mother's hands shake holding them. We argue here about the right film to capture such a thing, but I remember the silence in our colony that whole summer, broken only by Chiranjeevi's old songs on the radio, a fragile *bas* against the dread.
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