Some stories are meant to be told unfinished but that is not the case here.
This one is long, and speaking at so many imaginative levels that it can't fall into magical realism of Rushdie. It is a slow story of daughter and mother with everything else. Specially, lists of sweets, spices, flowers, and what not.
Half way through, the thought of abandoning it comes, and almost by the end of it, when the shadows come into the picture, the narrative asks if you're still around :)
Couldn't appreciate much because this is a translation in English from Hindi, and it is very much possible that it does read better in Hindi but not sure if everyone is going to see it.
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