Gandhi Market

Amidst evening and footpath stalls,

the toy-sellers have their wares out.

My mother will buy me a gift

for my birthday, any toy I want.

There are buildings and there

are lights and there are people.

The sky changes from blue to pink

all along the stretch of concrete.

God’s hand runs over it, I think.

God’s palm that is making the sky

change colour,

and on my own palm

I have an aeroplane rolling,

sparks of gold fly in its red windows.

 

The above poem is from my first collection Reeling (2012).

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