If my grandmother
could have her way,
she wouldn’t
let our lady sweeper Dulari
enter the kitchen
Or even clean her room.
Admonishment by our father,
veiled criticism by mom,
and outright revolt by us
led us nowhere but to
a blind or rather deaf alley.
But as the skies filled
with dark pregnant clouds
promising to slake the thirst
Of the earth and even
our very parched hearts,
We could see our Amma
giggling like a small girl,
sharing ghevar with Dulari,
getting intricate henna patterns
drawn on her hand and feet
enjoying the courtyard swing
on the day of Hariyali Teej.
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