Like the creaky wheel of an old cart

and a rickety rickshaw ride
Like the sooty kettle on a black stove
and the shine in my blind mother’s eye.

Like the bullock that ploughs the field
and the well that goes down deep
Like the post office at the end of the lane
and dried hay that lies on a heap

Like the stolen tamarind’s from Nana’s tree
and grandma’s toothless smile
Like the cane the master used
to teach me tables when I was a child

Like the oil lamp on the window sill
and the creaking in the stillness of night
Like the freedom of my backyard
and the protection in daddy’s sight.

This is what a to-be bride said when asked what she would remember her childhood in her village as…


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