A koel’s cohoo
from palm trees along a fence
drifts past black-crusted patches
on chipped plaster revealing red bricks—
through smoke
blurred in dusk’s orange haze

The smell of burning wood and dung
lingers above the potter’s hut
by the closed entrance gates

Catching her day’s breath
in a cane chair
on the raised verandah with a red-oxide floor—
my mother must have waited
all day to read his thoughts

For three years—
who posted her letters for him?
did she glance at the mailman
for a gesture?

Away from her childhood home—
a gurukul—
was he the first man she met?

Did she hold onto faith in his return
wondering if he thought of her
as she came to know him
between words
in letters read again and again?

What did they speak about?
did they hug
on the day he returned?

I have watched him drown himself—
in twenty-six books he wrote
and TV
over four decades without her

Did she write about her receding nails
from washing dishes?
what will I find one day
in that tin box of their letters
he keeps locked away?

My nails are receding now