Neighbourhood
On the narrow steps leading
to our gate, the pakoriwallah from Bihar is often found
kissing an anonymous woman at night.
Amazing act. My parents switch off the sitting-room
lights whenever this happens. The car beams show
them up – one unbroken secret silhouette.
The steps invite other actions. The local fakir some-
times lies there, coloured like a ditch, and passers-by
might climb to have a better look at the orange trees.
But this is different. The soft-spoken pakoriwallah
smelling of his pakoris , his half hour island of
defiant passion on the steps of somebody's house,
while around him everyday: the brash freeloaders,
the kick in the groin, the familiar words of abuse
spoken in an unfamiliar language.
First published in The Post-post Modern Review (October 2002)
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