There the worm lay, nestled neatly in a crack in the sidewalk. A crack only just as big as the worm, unnatural in both shape and depth, as though its sole purpose was to hold the useless creature as it said goodnight to the too-hot world.

They’re falling from the sky, Shantaben thought, her tired old body smothered by the windless Mumbai heat. It was the sixth worm lying in a strange pockmark Shantaben had seen that day, eighteenth this week. Maybe they weigh more than anyone gives them credit for. And crack the pavement upon impact.

Or maybe they live in the center of the earth and are, one by one, being ejected to face sun-drenched death. It seemed possible, she thought, her moist salwar kameez sticking to her skin. Rivulets of sweat criss-crossed her wrinkled face. Something is happening in the center of the earth. Shantaben spotted the first worm one day after Neelamjit, ever the dutiful messenger, had told her about Meeta, ever the near-forgotten daughter.… (read the rest here)