She woke
up thinking of her eight birthday,
Her mom
bought her red bangles and
fresh
jasmine flowers;
The sun
had been pleasant and so
the
water at the stream.
The sun
was still pleasant but
now
beckoned of work;
Of
bricks to be laid and gallons to be filled
Gita
yearned for the mornings with her mother,
Green
fields and quite waters
Her son
cried in his sleep;
She woke
up in the dark
She
changed his nappy
Wondered
if he was happy
Cause
wet it had been in her hut
Where
huddled together,
Meeta
with mother and brother
While on
her rounds, selling tampons
and
large size panties,
Little
did she wander; to be back by sun down
For
Deeru needed his scrub and a bowl of grub
She
burned her hand, third time on a Tuesday
For she
fried phulkas, one to a hundred
And
butter did she melt,
On a hot
summer’s day;
For her
mother spend time for crime
Sheeraj fried phulkas in the day
and read
History till late
Cause
she hoped to get a job
and rise
above the daily chore
Dark
kohl and a strong scent;
She
lingered in her broken high heel
Streets
lit with lamps yet too dark for the eye
Long
hours did she work,
with the
crooked men
and
clever miscreant agents
On days
of spare, she tried to forget
Days of
despair and gloom
Of
school dropouts and swindling thugs
For she
had to work to fix the roof
And to
send them to school
For
Tyra, Meera, Hema and Sheena
Knew not
of a father but of a sister
Who knew
life could be darker
than
down in an alley
