The Grief That Stayed

Every morning at six, Raghavan makes filter coffee the way it has been made in that kitchen for forty-one years, and takes down two steel tumblers. He fills both. He carries them to the balcony on the old tray, sets one by his chair and one by hers, and drinks his while the other goes cold. At seven he pours it into the sink and washes both.

His wife, Kamala, died two years and six months ago, in March, of a stroke, on a Thursday, having complained of a headache on the Wednesday. He is sixty-seven, a retired engineer, mentally exact, and under no illusion. He knows she is dead. He is not confused about the coffee. He simply cannot make one cup.