(written about a man i met while in the village of jhadpoli)

he stares at me
his lungi stained with life
that never waited for him
sagging skin showcased a grey stubble.
i walk with an air. he has not smelt.
speak with a chin. he has never lifted.
my processed cotton and lycra bands
the camera that has a bag of its own
muddled with my ideas of more
I come from a landscape he cannot imagine.

he eyes me with distrust… big, deep, watery grey eyes looking
for the dreams i might have sown
deep with my womb. that might destroy
his quiet silences
ruffle his calm
and make his
desire something that he doesn’t know.