She grins at me.

She grins at me with yolk and daal smeared across her lips, little vegetable bits dribbling out of her mouth.

GLUTTON BY ADEEB CHOWDHURY 34THPARALLEL MAGAZINE ISSUE 137

Someone spilled their lunch and left it on the floor of the New Bengal Express. Once they get off, their sandals scattering the clumps of rice, my father and I scuttle out of the luggage hold, and on our hands and knees scoop the rice into plastic bags, along with the sand, dust, and grime on the floor.

Every grain, my father says. He tells me that for every grain of rice I miss a snake will come and eat me in hell. At seven years old I believe him.

My fingers dig into the dirt-stained linoleum like pincers, picking up every grain of rice. Every grain.