The Suitcase

A small, warm kitchen. Turmeric-stained cutting board on the counter. PRIYA (60s, dignified, sari under a cardigan) washes dishes. Her daughter MEERA (30s, blazer, laptop bag still on her shoulder) stands in the doorway.

MEERA
I found the suitcase, Ma.

Priya doesn't turn around. The water keeps running.

MEERA (CONT'D)
The brown one. In the closet behind your winter coats.

PRIYA
That closet needs cleaning. I keep telling your father.

MEERA
It was packed.

Beat. Priya turns off the tap. Dries her hands slowly.

PRIYA
Packed how?

MEERA
Clothes. Jewelry. Your passport. The photo of Nani's house.

Long silence. Priya folds the dish towel into a perfect square.

PRIYA
Every woman keeps a suitcase, Meera.

MEERA
Not packed. Not hidden.

Priya finally turns. Her face is calm. Not the calm of peace—the calm of something long decided.

PRIYA
When I came to this country, I had one suitcase. Your father said — he said I wouldn't need much. Canada provides.

She laughs softly. It isn't bitter. It's the sound of something being set down.

PRIYA (CONT'D)
For thirty years I have unpacked into this life. Every drawer, every shelf. And I am grateful. You know I am grateful.

MEERA
(barely audible)
Then why?

PRIYA
Because gratitude and freedom are not the same thing. And a woman my age has earned the right to know the difference.

Meera opens her mouth. Closes it. Opens it again.

MEERA
Where would you even go?

Priya picks up the dish towel and begins folding it again, though it is already folded.

PRIYA
That is not really the question you're asking.