Heat and Dust

by Ruth Prawer Jhabvala

I was given some bits of rock sugar and a few flower petals which I did not of course like to throw away so that I was still clutching them on the bus back to Satipur. When I thought Inder Lal was not looking, I respectfully tipped them out the side of the bus, but they have left the palm of my hand sticky and with a lingering smell of sweetness and decay that is still there as I write.

Damn. To have written that sentence.

The rest of the time Olivia was alone in her big house with all the doors and windows shut to keep out the heat and dust.