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.