Dawn cracksover Delhilike a smooth,white egg, sunnyyolk of hope,perennially dented,imperfect,in the welkin;on the wall, lastnight’s smoke-scented jacketon the peg,behind the glasswindow, a houseflylicks the day, sulking.You can’t,for the life of you,find a majesticenough metaphor,for strifeand genesis,all drafts are only ‘rough’and all thatyou don’t know yetis that you’ll shakesome hands at work,grow meditativeand feel the slowtendentious painof hungerand try to sedate itwith cigarettesyet act irritatedlike no onehas been hungrier.How could one tellby looking at a corpsethat died of starvationhow it died?Mouth agape,mid scream.The eyespopped out at you,like a clown’s noseand rigor mortisprudently frozethe pell mellof the last(and frenetic)things he felt.Do you rememberthe time you once shooka hand that leftan impression, like a footon wet concrete,and became solidlike an anvilin your memory?It comes backevery time inanitionknocks aboutin your stomach,a sensorial ignitionin your buttocks.“and why, why now”You look to the bathroommirror, and touchthe grainy handtowel by the sink.Why were her handsso rough, and vileat that age?Why did she chooseto do the disheswithout gloves?No one to gohome to,no one to love?No one to holdhands with, or playpush and shove.<My parents aren’t in Delhi,they’re in Ranchi.><Okay.> you said.She’s a bit old tosound this young.You could not let hersweep your housethat one time.<Just play with my toys today>,you ordered, and watchedher from behind the curtain,with the strangest sadness.