"It’s just a costume, isn't it?" Kabir turned. Shukla Master was standing in the doorway, leaning on his cane. He had come to check on Kabir, knowing that the weeks following the funeral are often harder than the funeral itself. "What do you mean?" Kabir asked, dropping the shawl. "We spend our whole lives ironing the costume," Shukla Master said, hobbling into the room and sitting on the edge of the bed. "We wash it. We dye it. We show it off. We judge others by their costumes. 'Oh, his costume is wrinkled (old age).' 'Her costume is too loud (personality).' 'His costume is expensive (status).'" He pointed to the pile of clothes. "But when the play is over, the actor goes home. And we are left holding the costume, crying over a piece of cloth."