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a story gains power with retelling.
“Which subjects does he mean?” Bheem asked as we climbed onto the large and ornate chariot the king had given us as a parting gift. “The cobras or the hyenas?”
How much water would I have to swallow before I came to a resting place?
How little we know our own reputations, I thought with a bitter smile.
Stories were important. Even when I was a child, I'd realized that they had to be understood and preserved for the future, so that we didn't make the same mistakes over and over.
Perhaps that is the miracle of stories. They make us realize that we're not alone in our folly and our suffering.
to rebel against the boundaries society has prescribed for women.
It was a good memory on which to end a life.
