Inam Hussain Mullick writes

Weight

She was old, and had had a heartbreak at a late age. When her lover departed, she surrendered to impassioned fantasies of death; and miserable, dazed recalls of his bulk and his dark dogmas that made her belly implode with adolescent anticipations. Death enacted upon her with all its metaphysical symptoms. Daily, she coiled inside a savanna of emotional undergrowth.

She received a telephone call from her grandson.  He spoke of a new toy, a car with lights and melodies. When would he visit? After the war. It was always the same. Next morning, she tripped over the threshold and broke an elbow; later she listened to an old cassette of native instrumental music.

Her ticket won money. She bought a larger house with a garden, telephoned her gone lover. He promised to take a train soon enough, and warned her of neighbours.

News came that an old rival for her husband’s bed had died trying to chase some robbers. She smoked fine ganja at night and remembered that woman with compassion. Also, the epiphany arose that she never had had a grandson, of course not, where did the toy car come from? And what war?