Like the sour sweet orange candies we bought as little kids,
When the hawker came calling down in our compartment,
Just that color and that size,
The sun hangs in an early summer sky.
Across my seat and through the dusty glass pane of the window,
Of my train,
It took me back to when we were children,
Pestering ma for these treats.
Already hanging by the end of her saree,
Three of us few year olds
When of only eight and twenty I think it is a Herculean task now,
To raise one decent kid,
Than three broken ones.
Our mothers were made of steel.
We consider ourselves shards of a vase that’s already shattered.
We like to imagine our souls as battered,
The same sun shines down even today,
Lights up our world like honey drops dripping on our palms,
As our little fingers hold wet half finished candies against the grilled windows of the compartment of our train,
Comparing them against the light.