But not here. Not now. Now was not the time.

And so Sarah headed back to her world, to her appointments, her conference calls, her lists, her cases, her pleas, her meetings, her notes, her minutes, her business lunches, her assignments, her referrals, her three children. She headed back to the front like a good recruit, donned the mask she always wore, the one that suited her so well, the mask of the smiling, successful super-woman. The mask was intact. Not so much as a hairline crack. Back at work, she would reassure Inès and her colleagues: it was nothing. And everything would carry on as before.

In the weeks ahead, there would be a check-up with her gynaecologist. Yes, I feel something, she would say, while checking Sarah’s breasts, and her expression would be tinged with worry. She would prescribe a series of tests with outlandish names that strike fear whenever they’re spoken: mammogram, scan, biopsy. The tests that are practically a diagnosis in themselves. A pronouncement of sentence.

But now was not the time for all that. Against the intern’s advice, Sarah left the hospital.

For the moment, everything was fine.

If you didn’t talk about it, it didn’t exist.

A space no bigger than a bedroom.

You could fit a bed inside, at most,

And even then, only a child’s bed.

This is where I work, alone,

Day after day, in silence.

There are machines for this,

Of course,

But the result is less fine.

No production line here.

Each model is unique.

And each one makes me proud.

Over time, my hands have learned their work,

Independent of my body.

The gesture is taught.

But speed comes with years of practice.

I’ve been working for so long, bent over my loom,

That my eyes are strained.

My body is tired,

Stiff with rheumatism,

Yet my fingers have lost none of their agility.

Sometimes my mind floats

Far away from the workshop,

Transporting me to distant countries

And lives unknown,

Whose voices reach me here,

Like a faint echo,

And intertwine with my own.

Smita

Badlapur, Uttar Pradesh, India

Smita enters the hut. Straightaway, she sees the expression on her daughter’s face.

She had hurried to finish her rounds and didn’t call on her neighbour to share the Jatts’ leftovers, as she usually did. She had run to the well to fetch water, set down her rush basket, and washed herself in the yard – one bucket, no more, leaving enough for Lalita and Nagarajan.