A Dark Little Figure Her eyes are the eyes of the old man Who is going to die right now. You can scratch and draw images on her skin, Anaemic, thin limbs— She waits as withered flowers wait for the mowers, A dark little figure in a corner of the park. Her blue sari is covered with a ragged chadar, A pair of Ajanta slippers she wears to lure hungry eyes, Many days she returns home with empty hands, A few days she buys a meal for Munni and her father. She tries first to do this

The Vigil’s Progress We begin with the immediate memories Grandpa’s last phone call to each one of us only to hand over the receiver to grandma both hard of hearing and full of love Armed with pliers and a length of copper he repaired our mixers, transistors and bicycles changed the chandeliers and polished the doorknobs while grandma kept her third fast of the week Slowly but visibly, the body is growing cold the sockets of the eyes are sinking in the peace that’s settled on