I expected the tanned face and brawny hair
to hold a grim face. Glib against the onslaught
of tourists, sun, dry winds and hot blue sky.
With both hands clinging to the basket of dupattas,
leheriya, bandhni and cowrie shell pinched into corners,
your short frayed blouse told me you are just a child.
Mere. The skirt did not match. It was not new, not yours.
I loved the broken mirrors blooming on your legs.
I could not look away from the sky reflected in them.
And when you turned with your voice, selling the cloud
shaped dupattas, fingers threading the grey into colour,
I saw your smile. Perfect symmetry
on parched lips. This year, when I come back
I will buy a blue and pink leheriya, hope those white
weaves will hold you. Cup that smile. Keep it. Fabric
the desert into kindness for your brown eyes, blue tattoos
and all those pebbles that make you happy on this barren hill.