After leaving her husband
at the hospital she neither stop
to search for Orion’s belt
nor turned her head toward
the accelerated clicking
on her back, dark with night.
A single dimmed light
clouded by a few rain-drops
shone on wet pavement.
She walked as if wanting
to defy the law of gravity,
a fleeting atom of fear
escaping a black hole.
Heels sounding like tap dancing,
made her gyrate exactly
as a hand almost touched her.
You would have thought
she was Miron’s discus thrower
had you seen her spinning bag
land on the masculine shadow.
A moonless rainy night had driven Kashmiris indoors
probably leaning on kangers to keep them warm,
help will not arrive before the Monsoon.
Alone under the miniscule street light,
she hurled the bag again, run
until the last two shikaras aligned
in the pier appeared in sight.
A friendly young man, a boy really,
with whom she worked out a price
in advance, waited patiently.
Half way through to the houseboat
a voice like a ghost called out.
Faruk, that was his name, answered
the foggy voice in the shadows,
shivering barking dogs joined in.
“I think he has your jacket.”
She held coat and scarf closer.
There was no jacket amid her possessions.
In the vast darkness she saw the invisible
victory “vs” of geese overhead guiding
them to Dal Gate, hypnotized by indigo waves
flickering silver, they arrived to the houseboat.
Next morning, as she climbed out of the shikara,
a young man approached her,
“Madam, here’s your wallet,” he said.
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