we were supposed to
fetch water-
me and my cousin,
a kilometer’s walk
from the hand pump.
Small pots on our
shoulders, slipping arms,
dusty feet, the road
smelt of wet mud
and sunburnt patience.
If we did that for a
week, the reward was
a roti with butter
and a lump of jaggery-
a Sunday feast
we’d eat like kings.
While we fetched water,
and grandma churned
the curd with her Kadagol,
humming some old tune
that had no beginning
or an end.
By the time we returned,
Enroute, our shadows
grew taller than us.
The house was cemented
and plastered.
Cattles were gone
and grandma too.
The water came through
motorised pipes,
and the life got seated
in memory, lingering only
as sensations now
in the legs that refuse
to run.