Jindagi Kumari’s short story touches upon the manner in which mental illness continues to be considered a stigma in our society without proper treatment being sort for it.
Turvi was smitten by the beautiful artwork in the middle of the room. It was a tiny sand base, bordered with triangular patterns of rice and vermillion. The sequence of triangles; scarlet, after each white, looked like miniature mountain ranges brought to a crisscross. In the centre, dozens of unmellow yellow lemons were assembled in patterns of flower petals.
Was this design a quirky alpana? Why was the cot moved to make room for it while spare parts of the house were ignored? Aren’t alpanas drawn near thresholds, or in open? Turvi tried hard to think, while still unbuttoning the shirt of her school uniform. Who made it, and why?
Strolling casually through the straight row of several chambers her home was, Turvi scanned it for other signs of change.