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 Ramla
He would come daily
to sweep, wash clothes and dishes
in a shirt torn at the back
I gave him a shirt
that I didn't wear any more
then another
and another
but he
would still come daily
in the shirt torn at the back
Why? I would ask
Each time he answered
I sent it home
to my brother in Dungarpur
and would still come daily
in the shirt torn at the back
The Lie
Margoa, Goa.
Father Agnel's ashram
a few cottages.
A 'mother' in each home
and orphans.
Each home clean
well kept, equipped.
We sit on the parapet
and watch the children play.
Twilight sets in
with deepening shades of grey.
Children run here and there;
skip, dance, push and fight.
I don't know when Frazer
comes and stands beside me
Holding my finger in his tiny hands
he asks,
"Will you be my father"?
The last light in the sky
had faded into
the silent night.
I lied "Yes",
twenty years ago.
Mama
Streetlights fill in the fading space,
between the porch and memories
of Mama and my village, far away.
I am burning and delirious,
Mama plucks chilies and bananas
from the backyard.
She returns from the market
with just a few Rupiah
not enough for the village doctor.
When lamps go out
there is the silence of crickets
and our sobbing.
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