Indolent tongues of yellow light, peering from tired clay lamps, flicked the smooth curtain of darkness, feeling its inky texture, curious, wanting to burn a little hole in its opaque folds to unravel the mangled debris of thirty six years, that she had carefully concealed behind it.
While the fireworks floated down from the sky into her kohl tipped eyes, while the ghee from the gold flecked sweets glistened on her open lips, while the rustle of her Benaras silk fanned the shimmering dance of the seductive Diwali night, she smiled.
The truth could wait till morning.
alone on the grass
in the grey dawn rain
the crow doesn’t know it is crying