Nanima at the village well

Nanima used to love sitting on the swing and read. That is the photograph I wish I had of her. The one I do have shows her at the village well, looking straight at the camera, head only partly covered, a ghada under her arm. The tree to the right, maybe a young neem, throws a shadow on the ground.

I don’t know if this was before or after she refused to cover her head anymore. But on that day, she did something else upper caste Rajput women in the village did not do—she walked through the village, went to the well, filled the pot with water, and walked back home.

Maybe this is the picture I want of her—of the woman who would have understood my desire to curl up with a book to read, to travel with my body beyond my body.