Down the stairs of this house

where plaster flakes and falls,

Through the intimate emptiness

of its rooms and hall,

I hear your slow footsteps,

grandmother, echo or pause

As they used to through long

summer afternoons spent within

The watered-down four walls of

khus and fragile drinks

Of ice. mango or lemon, the

circle of water-melon crescents.

Slowly you shuflle examining

each new tear in the curtains

Which will have to be mended

when the first monsoon rain

Provides a respite from Sun.

curtails the need for shade.

Slowly on arthritic joints you

move from room to room

Marking the damage of the years,

evaluating how soon

The past will collapse or how long

the present last.

You never need glasses to mark

be contours of your house

Though you can't see grandsons at

a distance, once wore a blouse

Inside out. Nothing has changed,

grandmother, no, not yet;

Though your collected steps never

turn the corner into you

In a starched and white sari, the

fragrance of soap around you.

And all the curtains have long

been taken down.