Grandma scurries across the balcony

with her walking cane in hand.

Lazy city monkeys sit on the edge

of the parapet, feasting on raw

mangoes spread out to dry.

They play with pickles, sunbathing,

the tips of their fingers colored

golden in turmeric and spice.

On the clothesline, in the claws

of steel clips, an old sari hangs

loosely, fluttering over their small heads

as the mother monkeys pick lice.

They tear the clothes into halves,

granny winces, shoos them away

with all the loudness her breaking

body can muster, a prayer more

divine than her evening shloka,

until her voice cracks at last.

She keeps beating the marble floor

with the long stick that is

bent at the end like her back, till

all of them flee, become a distant dot

in the glare of that hot, quiet afternoon.

She picks the scattered pieces of

unmade pickles and checks them

for teeth marks. Unpins the torn

bedsheet and the torn sari,

carries them inside.

Her eyesight has grown weak,

and she can't sew it back.

So she holds it in

her shaking hands, and cries.

The fruit vendor hawks his lorry

on the clustered street, grinning

at her when grandma peers

out of the window, asks the price.

Her lungs shrink, wrinkles deepen,

Dasaratha weeps under her eyes.

The pickles should be ready

before the kids arrive.