Someday, you may find the rain knocking on your window, seeking shelter for the night. ‘I am being hunted like a wild beast,’ it may say in a small voice dripping with the smell of desolation and musty fables.
A sari’s drape is nothing like a suit; A pin-striped jacket’s cut is far more slick; When glass and bamboo ceilings need the boot, They say a trouser’d likely do the trick.
At the turn off to the temple, smoke rises in the hills. In the fields, two women, red and green dhotis, bend to pick the dry grasses for cattle feed. The new paddy is yet to be sown ...
