Feast in the Graveyard

I am sitting cross-legged on my own “qabar”.

The tablecloth is a white dupatta,
embroidered with moths.
Around me: women I never met.
But their voices sit under my skin
like old henna.

One pours chai into a chipped cup.
Another, slices pears with her thumbnail.
One feeds me rice with her hands
her fingers smell of Dettol and daal.
I think she was my badi amma (great-aunt).
Or the neighbor who died in childbirth.

They eat like queens.
They speak in riddles.
They keep saying my name like a lullaby.

But one turns to me and whispers,
“You came too early, beti.
There are still fires that need your tongue.”

When I ask what that means,
they cover their faces with napkins
and weep into the soil.