The early morning hours in the small village in the midst of the hills and mountains. All the houses lost in the sweet dreams at those early hours, with just some candle light in the `padwee` or `osari`; in that dim light is sitting Malan, near the stone grinder; her one hand with the colourful bangles resting on the wooden bamboo making the grinder move in a circular motion and the other inserting hands full of `jondhale` from the sack kept on her side. The rhythmic sound of the grinder, Malan`s curvy movements and Malan herself lost in it; her words started flowing out like the flour out from the grinder, smoothly, rhythmically. In the rhythm, she hardly realized that her work was finished, one after the other the stanzas were blended in each other, harmoniously, making it difficult to distinguish them from each other. These stanzas were full of the events from her life; write from her childhood to the maturity of a woman, from love to affection, from life to death, from the birth of a child to the death of someone near and dear...leaving nothing out.