I heard the woman who pastes little rounded discs to sun-dry into cow dung cakes on the backyard brick wall, mislaid a basket of ripened yellow bananas this morning, left it at your door, the equivalent of a marriage proposal.
Consider the city’s skyline against the enigmatic black canvas of night. Consider a shadow creeping up on the horizon. Consider an Enchantress. A Reason. Consider the attraction of a Beckoning, just out of reach.
The night before my parents moved to Delhi, Lambda reclined on his armchair, bony legs like long strokes joined at the knee.