mud splashed: teeth and truck,
a grind and growl—we watch
the world and rev the engine.
a spattered sky—churned air,
for a moment: a trip overseas,
time traveling to our childhood.
five sliced fish heads on a skillet
—sizzled scents and flickered
curtains of opened windows,
a distant conch mixed with caws
and barks: ma wipes her hands
on her sari and finds the salt
while we sit at the table playing
carrom with bhelpuri fingers.
reversed—covered in dirt,
walking into the kitchen
to prepare red beans and rice
while ma sits on the recliner
reading letters from our late
dadu. a window still opened
—a cow and a dog and a hen
find a flower in the patches
of puddled earth. my baro
bhai wipes his forehead,
a linen curtain flapping—
a memory of fresh dhotis,
washed and sun-dried, ma,
it’s ready, we say. a pranam
and a hand—at the table,
just like then and just like
then: another game of carrom.
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