Nani and the Washing Machine
A regal woman with shy glints of gold,
she kindles fires within her chest.
The glimpse of her silvery red hair from beneath her chadar
defy her eighty-three years.
Life has inscribed stories amongst her wrinkled skin
Softened with scented oils, her touch is smooth.
But the mind still sharp wrestles with signs,
wrestling with the dials and symbols
of a machine with no instruction.
Cycles of thoughts spinning with the drum
for three hours now.
No one to explain, she calls out for the imaginary children
who have left only their shadows behind.
She tugs at the clip trying to open the door
but the door remains locked;
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