Today, the market was a weekday,
meek customers at the whims of
seemingly fixed and unbalanced prices
₹ 30 per half kg but ₹ 50 per kg.
A Sikh woman gaunt as a twig
with a kirpaan hanging fast,
hopeful that the plastic utensils,
the plastic strainers and the muddlers
will find their way to their adoption.
The cheapest jewelry in town laid,
on a rickety wooden table covered
with a plastic sheet that sticks
like dirt on sweat in the summer heat.
A touch of senility on her face,
as I turned back to see her once more
she had turned the same time,
eyes exchanging a glance of uncertainty
then turning back towards the rush of cars
and arranging the plastics of disbelief.