That evening, she stood in front of the covered mirror.
The shawl was still over it, hung from the top of the frame. Under the shawl, the shape of the mirror was visible — the vertical rectangle, the teak frame at the edges.
She should take it down. She should fold it up and put it against the wall face-first and call Babulal in the morning and tell him to remove it.
She did not take it down.
She stood in front of it for three minutes.
Then she reached out and lifted one corner of the shawl.
She looked at the small section of mirror revealed — approximately twenty centimetres square, showing her hand, the sleeve of her kurta, the wall behind her.
Normal.
She lifted the shawl further.
Her face appeared in the revealed section. Her face looking back. No expression out of place.
She lifted the shawl all the way.
The mirror was normal. She was normal. The reflection was hers, completely, a woman standing in a small Mumbai flat at nine PM holding a shawl and looking at herself looking at herself.
She almost laughed.
She almost let herself feel the relief of it.
Then she looked at the reflection's eyes.
Her own eyes — dark brown, the same as always, nothing changed.
Except.
Except that her eyes were moving. She could feel them moving — taking in the mirror, the shawl, the room. The small tracking movements of a person looking at something.
Her reflection's eyes were still.
Not closed. Not blank. Still. The stillness of someone who had already finished looking and was now simply watching.
Tanvi replaced the shawl.
She sat on the bed with her back to it.
She called Poorvi.
