The village was a cluster of white-washed houses with red tile roofs and a narrow river that reflected the sky. On the festival day, people gathered under canopies strung with lights. The air smelled of curry leaves and roasted coconut. In the crowd, a woman moved like a motion remembered from all the thread’s photographs and lines — a shy tilt of chin, a hand that kept smoothing her sari’s pallu. She wore a threadbare shawl and held a battered tambourine.
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