the kindergarten kid
while incessantly tugging at her hands
to play the rhymes video on the phone
ends up breaking my mother's bangle.
my mother pretends to cry.
the little girl— who never shares her tiffin,
never lets anyone bigger than her sit on the seesaw,
never lets anyone take her window seat
in the schoolvan— offers my mother her own bangle.
*
the film starts at three. i'm an hour early.
i sit under the tree buffeted by the smoke
and sounds of tambaram's hurry.
across me an old woman sits with her head in her hands:
her hair unwashed, matted, her sari unwashed, torn,
her underskirt showing, faded, nails unclipped,
her whole body swaying hungry or drunk.
i pull out my phone like a gun in a duel against boredom:
time's balmed cadaver.
a man in white and saffron offers her some money, says:
go, eat something, go. but she refuses and pulls out
some scraps of food wrapped in some scraps of newspaper
like a gun in a duel against the everyday:
wet inkblots on emptied dreams.
i scroll wattpad as she eats hesitation, looking at nowhere,
looking for nothing, until she sees a little girl, standing by
her mother and their scooty.
she throws her arms out to her, says:
come, to grandma, come. but the girl refuses:
her smile pinned by her mother's shadow.
~ ajay
25/8/2024
