Our foremothers
Were  told
That stars appeared
On the bottom of
Hot boiling vessels.
And then came our mothers
Who let the chiffon chunni
Slide off their
Henna filled
Audacious red scalps
When they ran
Behind buses
To get for their daughters
Small lumps of sweets & letters
packed in tattered newspapers
In their purses.

Her purse,
Which always smelled of
A little of soap, sweat and her.
Oh how I longed
For that smell
Every evening
While I waited,
For the stars to appear
In the sky

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