Chapter 9
It began with the tea strainer. My mother had started to strain the tea several times over in a paroxysm of energy, anger, and suspicion, braiding the three strands together until the ritual was complete.
‘You can’t trust anyone these days,’ she said, tipping the tea out of the pot, putting it through a sieve, and letting it drip into a Tupperware container. She paused and sighed and tipped the contents of the container back into the teapot. Her coral-coloured lips were drawn in a thin line, disproving. She handled the teapot as though it were infested with a deadly virus. She started again, tipping, sieving, dripping, pouring. She wore a bright yellow blouse. It clashed with her lipstick. It clashed with the green and silver jewelled sandals that Sunita had bought her at a Del
