On an afternoon
during my summer vacation
Mother made me a few small clay figures—
and painted them with a red dye.

The bargain was, I should bathe
in the well and eat my lunch
before I could have those toys.

Placed on the edge of a charpoy
the toys fell off and broke
as I was executing the deal
with rice and curry in my mouth.

From a distance, I felt water splashing
the freshly painted walls of my mind.

The dye was the colour of my thoughts.

After decades now, I wonder
about the exact moment when I grew up
and the exact moment I would grow old.
It's like a glint vanishing through rolling wheels.

I am still at some distance and can see
the walls of my house falling off
like those clay toys Mother made.

I feel an air cooling my shadow.
It must be travelling from the meadows
surrounding my childhood home.