Matongini wiped off the beads of perspiration from her forehead with the loose end of her sari as she blew air into her earthen stove. Peeping into the vessel placed on top of the stove, she pushed in the ladle to give the broth another stir. She sat back to let it cook a bit more resting her tired back on the Sal wood stilt that held up her hut. Her eyes tired with age and misery, bore a far-away look. It was as if her body was sitting in…
