The old woman

Some days we reach the history of an old woman

Walking the feet of yesterday’s marriages, pickles

Made, worship of deities, hospitals of childbirths

Babies crying in lungs, dark nights spent on bodies

Silk sarees in steel trunks, fragrant brides of sons

Sweetmeats brought from gods, fears of violence.

And the feet somehow end up at the wall at the end

And have to trace the morning back to a side street

Losing sight of the woman and her enacted history.


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