The Ashoka Grove

We fixed the wall
when Seema was born.
 
                                                           There’s a calendar, a poster
                                                           with a deadly Terminator of a movie hero
                                                           and two embroidered hares or so
 
When Sameer was born
we put in a glass window
 
                                                           A torn bed sheet that served as a curtain,
                                                           the tinkling sound from the paanwallah’s shop
                                                           and late into the night, the light
                                                           of the street lamp settling down  
                                                           and refusing to leave
 
The third time in the month
A miscarriage
 
                                                           The scattered debris
                                                           of unrecognisable household things.
                                                           Rags, tatters, bricks, bamboos,
                                                           the mirror, soot,
                                                           cinders smouldering in a ditch.
 
The tin sheets of the roof
were rotten.
 
                                                            The same old sky.                         

THE ASHOKA GROVE