Monday, July 23, 2012


Creases fill with warmth,
and promise.
Limp dampness
takes on new form
guided by

Steam billows into the air
in slow motion puffs,
doing a dance
for those who are watching.

Silently I smile
as I begin to feel
and a little moan
as the warmth embraces me too.

The pleasures
of freshly ironed clothes
on a rainy day.

Tuesday, July 10, 2012

Cross Purposes

Her eyes open in bewildered wonder.
Her light eyes and fair skin
wouldn’t be out of place
in any gossip tabloid about town.

She watches as I sit
Nervously smoothing my kurta –
“Hand dyed in organic colour,
Wash in cold water only”.
I smile as she stares,
twisting the ends of her dupatta
dyed by the sun, winds and the rain. 

She listens intently, her head tilted,
mouth in a twist, eyebrows meeting,
trying to make sense of the words
as I tell her this and that
in my urban effort
to “make a difference”.  

I came to tell her
that she should be in school,
filling her head
with facts and analyses
and sing-song times tables.
She smiles in response,
hoists the crying baby  in the corner
onto her hip,
and wipes it’s runny nose
with a mother’s love. 

She smiles a slow knowing smile –
one that tells stories of things
that I cannot understand.
I realise she’s smiling at me,
and I suddenly feel a weariness
 beyond my years.
I stop talking,
and my words trail off.
She begins to talk
of family and
finding a place
in this world.
And I’m caught,
an orange lizard
in the green shrubbery.
And I slowly return,
to my world –
of hand dyed kurtas and easy truths
while she stays
with the sun, wind and the rains.