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.
