Mother of Everything

I’m afraid I’m allergic to the jasmine I love, just like Betty’s vile husband in Storms of Malhado. But perhaps there’s a silver lining. Perhaps if I had not been feeling congested and miserable I would not have wanted a steaming hot cup of Masala Chai. I would not have driven to the Indian temple with the nice little restaurant. I would not have stared for a long time at the mural depicting a goddess and a cow, and the man who works there would not have told me that the cow is sacred because she is the Mother of Everything.

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