The saree  in tree, just a rag, is no waving flag less its  swinging child . The child  may perhaps  be sleeping  now in another tree  hammock ,its eye closed to the sun. The mother may be bearing  bricks on her head to build some one else’s house. The sun is already up on a floating film song in a distant air. The twin rocks, sisters in blood, sit in a corner of peace, with the child banyan between them.

A child’s voice comes wafting as breeze, as curiosity to dad, a question for a quick reply.The child is curious on a falling bicycle, its crankshaft shining a morning sun. The crow caws a lonely caw.


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