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.