Come, sit.
Tonight, water is tripping
for the stage is cloudy,
papa has slipped a few
naphthalene balls
everywhere fungi could sneak
sweaters, blankets, books
photographs, all inside the bed
where life moves above
every now and then
mama has planted
coriander, because
it cost her forty rupees
roti-chutney misery
has become costly now,
don't you think?
Sometimes I question
where do prayers go?
Would praying a cancellation
mean a wrecking cyclone?
But then, I look at them
smiling at old photographs
looking at me,
Perhaps God says,
Come, sit,
sit and watch,
your order has been shipped.
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