An old woman, sells newspapers

On the pavement, near Aurora Towers

shivering hands, grey hair, swollen legs

have bought, from her

Golden Sparrow, The Hindu, The Indian Express,

Countless number of Times,

Wonder if she is alive,

Wonder if I will buy newspaper from her ever

At the chowk, there is tailor kaka,

Who have altered my clothes

For my short, plump, “not-perfect” body,

Many times now,

can do without the measuring tape,

Wonder how he is.

Wonder if I can get my new dress altered.

At the intersection, there is cobbler

Just like my oldest cousin in A.Nagar

Throughout the years

He resoled my shoes, stitched my sandals

Making the cheap one’s anew, ready for the season

Wonder if he is back to his village, safe and healthy,

Wonder if I will ever recycle my shoes

Near Datta mandir, there is flower seller

Never bought flowers from him,

But smelled them while passing,

Saw him make garlands with his younger brother, everyday

And eating lunch with him, everyday

Hope they are well

Wonder if I will experience fragrance of his flowers soon

I have forgotten how tall D is to me,

Have craved for A’s embrace,

Want to run like S as lethargy has set in,

and Have Tea with R n V

Want to laugh and drink with N,

Watch cringe worthy content with S

Wonder how P, V, F, S are doing?

I hope well.

Wonder will we survive this after all?

In the past, have felt pure joy,

listening to Kukubh Bilawal,

Malhar by Kishori Amonkar

Bach, Vivaldi and Tchaikovsky,

too numb to fell anything.

Mourning too is eluding.

Wonder when will our heart again,

Feel anything, Even grief

Wonder how will we survive

Wonder what will it be like,

if we survive.