At the time of my birth, my small town Kalyan, did not have a library.
It had no road rage, few beggars, one defunct traffic signal at Murbad Road,
and fewer cars.
Memory is… images of a prepubescent boy cycling home,
Parag milk packets in one of his arms,
feeding biscuits to a stray gaggle of brown dogs, wagging their shins.
Goa is a leitmotif of childhood May holidays
A quartet of perspiring aunts cirlicuing their liquid syllables
Small washed rooms opening to orchestras of husk and coir
Not remembering sleep or the winter of her skin
she dozes and wakes, taking away your burning
with the single-most thought of
salt-water towels on your back and forehead
Light over sea, beach light, window light, moonlight,
cloud-bitten biscuit suns,
large white bed sheets…