my grandmother, married my grandfather's feet, I'd say. because it was the only part of him she ever saw clearly, hidden beneath her veil, serving chai with ginger and a smile, maybe, she was trying to add spice. he was wise she says, ofcourse Dadi, he was a decade older. marriage is all about the little things she says, he taught her to be a woman. to hear, to dress, to cover, to mask, he said she looked pretty that way. and isn't love all about compromise? she says it was a privilege, so she cooked his meals, ironed his shirts, buttoned them up. she unbuttoned her own, when asked to, he was very wise, every word was a sermon. at his funeral, she lights up a candle and she places orchids on his grave. later, she says that love and candles never go hand in hand. it isn't about the flowers and fancy dates, love is but, a habit. an uncomfortable obligation that you learn to decorate, like an abandoned house, they say women are mysterious, these women, they know magic.