From a pavement in Calcutta

To my  mother

Do not open your eyes
It must be so cozy over those rags
In the basket, under the little tree.
Nothing has gone except the wobbling tram.
Your mother is there kindling the fire
Her face pickled in grime and sweat
She shoos the flies gathering round the broth.
Do not open your eyes.
Nobody has gone except the grubby old man,
Muttering as he gets his chest down again
To pull his rickshaw load along.
Let them all go
Ever trampling everywhere
Do not open your eyes
You fit my photo frame perfect
Let me click just you so cozy in your basket.
No, do not open your eyes
Let me have nothing else
In my photograph, in my memory.

Sunanda Satish

First published in The Telegraph