By: Snigdha Agrawal

An old vendor, half-lungi tied,
settles beneath
the Gulmohar’s shade,
his cart heaped
with chusni mangoes.

As evening leans in,
they come, as they always do;
children who have missed a meal,
unleashing laughter
like birds erupting

from a leafy tree

They are happy enough
with split skins,
overripe fruit,
the day’s leftovers,

he presses into waiting hands.

“Amrit! Amrit! Amrit!”
In unison, they scream

—-

A small kirana shop,

lifts its shutters

at 10 am sharp

Mittu, one eye clouded,
sits on his takta,
gutka tucked in his cheek,
while his ten-year-old son
counts coins,
measures rice,
hands over change.

At dusk,

before closing shop
they tear open packets
of stale bread
for the four-legged regulars;

in gratitude for unsolicited

protection from thieves

breaking-in.

The rustle of wrappers stays,

much after this daily ritual.

—-

One blistering morning,
Ramu, the gwala,
toppled from his bicycle,
his forehead striking
the cement.

Foam gathered
at the corner of his mouth.
His body shook
like a wind-struck leaf.

The aluminium milk cans,
roped tight,
crashed to the road,
milk slipping away
in a thin white stream.

The shoe-shine boy
ran from across the street,
a leather sole
still clutched in one hand.

He waved it beneath Ramu’s nose,
then set the fallen cans upright,
saving what could still be sold.

The well-heeled,
barely slowed;

a click of tongues,
a soft “tsk,” “tsk”,
moving on.

—-

Outside my window,

another day folds into the next.

The street forgets quickly.

Yet some small gestures,
almost unnoticed,
refuse to leave.

===

###

Snigdha Agrawal (née Banerjee) is the author of five books and a lifelong lover of words, writing across genres. Based in Bangalore, she continues to write and travel, which remain her lifelong passions.