Doorway of Life
Lina Mistri stood on the porch of her old bungalow in Panchgani. She had a couple of hours before her weekly video call with her kids. On the other side of sixty she had become frail in last couple of years. Winter had settled into the hill station, and the sun was setting early, painting the sky in shades of orange and violet. The air was crisp, carrying the faint smell of wood smoke from distant kitchens. She pulled Jamshed’s shawl tighter around her shoulders. The wool felt scratchy but comforting. Her gaze wandered across the strawberry farms that stretched beyond the stone wall, their leaves glistening with the approaching evening dew. As the evening mist began to creep in, her mind drifted back two years, to the days after her husband, Dr. Jamshed Mistri, had passed away. Forty years ago, she came to Panchgani with her husband. She and Dr. Mistri both had been orphan’s. They completed their education in Mumbai with support from their Parsi community. He had left his flourishi...
