• 3 •
Thirty bad days passed with us prisoners in the Mother of Goodness’s house, flowers crouching in flames. We were allowed to meet together in the large inner courtyard, or in the reception room by the main door. At times, we exchanged our troubles, or held what we called a painful singsong, which was superficially funny. But the singing was half-hearted, not from deep in our throats, and had no effect other than keeping us alive, or living dead.
Ambhika Bisswass was heavily pregnant, alive with the crazed passion of mothers-to-be. She stroked her distended belly every now and again and kissed it. Perhaps she smiled or giggled quietly, or withdrew far into her mind to ponder things other than the fire of captivity she shared with us.
She imagined a bright future for the child to com
