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.