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Shrikaanth Krishnamurthy

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Grandpa's will has left things as clear as the overgrown backyard of our ancestral home. This home, whose every wall, every tree, every nook, every corner was entwined with vines of memories, is now up for sale—just another century old palatial house in a village up for grabs. And dad will not let me buy it. He says it is buttressed by too many sorrows and tears. I rant, rage, scream, quarrel, but he does not budge.

  perennials—
not enough cover
for the cracks