Sunlight spilled across the family room. Sandhyamma spun with her brass bell while the grandchildren chased her. “Ding-a-ling!”
The curtains danced, and the bell rang faster. Sandhyamma laughed—then stopped suddenly and coughed into her hand.
By the window, Sandhyamma rested in a wooden chair. The grandchildren brought water and a soft shawl. “I’ll ring it again,” she promised.
On Sunday, the family walked to church. Sandhyamma tied a bright ribbon beside a glowing candle and held her bell carefully.
The bell slipped and rolled down the aisle. “Ding, ding, ding!” Everyone hurried after it.
Days passed, and Sandhyamma stayed in bed. The grandchildren sat nearby, holding the bell between them without ringing it.
After Sandhyamma died, the family gathered quietly at home. The youngest grandchild shook the bell. No hand touched it, but it rang.
The grandchildren carried the bell to the garden. Together, they rang it beneath the leaves. “Ding-a-ling!”