She swayed like a princess, a swan,
on a road so filthy, you could hardly even walk.
Her anklets had a rhythm,
a music so soft, impossible to miss, impossible to ignore.
There was little I could see on her face from far,
but her deep old sorrowful eyes, smudged with kohl, worn out with age.
I couldn't help but imagine the life she must've led!
No one looked her away, their attention only on the tea in her hand.
The dark brown concoction to relieve them of their stupor,
on a dark, gloomy, moisture laden Ahmedabad monsoon afternoon.
Her eyes looked away too,
or maybe it was only in my imagination.
She hurried back as the drizzle started,
I still stared at her, she never looked my way.
Her eyes looked afar,
maybe at her own past, maybe the future - the few years left
I could sense her presence, long after she had left.
The constant noise at the workshop,
adding to the music in my thoughts.
My trance broken suddenly,
by a dark, almost surreal rain.