After the day’s hard work I returned to my hut. In the corner slept my 9-year-old daughter, abused recently by rich boys. My fisherman husband had strayed far into the sea. Hungry I walked to the corner of the hut. There was a tomato, salt and two slices of stale bread. I made a soup. The bread, I broke it down to crumbs. Counting one for one suffered sorrow, I drowned it in the soup. My girl and I sipped it as long as possible, in silence, wishing all the sorrows would drown the same way in this crumb of life.
— Thriveni C. Mysore