Nine-yard saree fading in the sunlight borne with grace. Brow bent with age, with wrinkles of poverty. Eyes squint, item is held close to face to determine what it is. "Thirty rupees. Very good material, Sir. Will hold water. For ages." I paid the amount instantly. As I walk away, I steal a quick glance. Old woman, frail but proud. Proud of a day's hard labour. Of her keep honestly earned. A bit of kumkum, some flowers, the last of her green bangles. I look at me. Levis, Adidas, Clavin Klein. I would give my fortune for the dignity she exudes. Published in South Asian Poetry Review 26 (3); 2005
The message is supreme;
Born in the heart,
and lilting itself
from tongue to tongue,
throwing its scent
over wind and wave;
travelling on dots
or fingers
when blindness
or silence bar its way.
It hews itself into stone
or burns itself onto magnetic discs;
it is the message that lives
and I exist
solely to pass it on.