She never died. She weaved into life; holds the mic and gives a “mayoos meena“ smile. You would know she is behind you preparing herself to shock you, but alas she fails. She will naturally have this beautiful extravagant aura around her. Her feet sprinting, mass hardly on the ground, she seemed to never let anything be bothered, her golden brown hair breezing into a waltz, she would flick her fringes like that hair shampoo advertisement. Yellow high-neck tunic and orange pants, we did pull her leg that day. She was my dram-soc (drama society) friend in college, legs parted and I knew I was the baby to her vagina in the street play. Chews imaginary paan and does my make up for stage and I would stare into her golden brown eyes with that PERFECTLY winged eye liner. We grew together as actors having our share of joys and failures. But she was larger than life for all the people who know her, she was intense and light like a feather. She lost her hand as a child to medical negligence. I will not try to correct myself here. Yes, I did notice the so-called short fall, and yes I frowned with surprise about how “normal” she seemed. TUNG the sonar goes and encompass the story of binary system of perfection. Running on the hegemony of the products of the society stooping down to the minus and pluses of everything making one embar to the ideas of the demagogue. She was certainly conscious of her body, she hid her amputated hand whenever she got herself clicked