As a pair of overworn ghungroos, their gentle patter across the linoleum floor. My master’s feet fluttering around the room in circles. The poetry of bending over the ankle, praying with knees knelt towards the sun. Talking to the moon on a starless night. Pretending to sing a lullaby to the ocean. Rowing paper boats in the laps of old mountains, pulling shallow blinds down when it rained. Watching the sky carve its first syllable in the sea’s mouth. Listening to wind hide in the hollow trunks of a cedar. Training spring to clean the edges of a summer seed. Greeting the street cobbler every morning. Playing with dust-ridden shoes. Travelling the hidden corners of a city in ancient rickshaws. Growing up to hear metal cars blur past busy lanes, people walk on separate sides of a pavement. Tall buildings rise over the expanse of the horizon. Wooden benches take over grandma’s rugs. Steel railings, handmade staircases. Finding souvenirs in a town full of vague memories.
Like the song of a cicada. The seesaw in the garden. Paisleys wrapped in silver cloth. Flickering eyes. A silence as big as shrunken pashmina.