घुड़सवार

stagnant moments embroidered on glossy sheets—

polka dots on a cream cotton—maroon and navy

—two little girls dressed in matching uniforms

grinning with all their teeth and gaps in the gum

encircled by misty hills, a toy train ready to board,

smoke infusing aromas of wildflowers and pakode;

burnt orange frocks with golden-yellow piping

beside the weathered walls of the front yard,

rose vines trailing behind, jasmine bush to the side,

bordered by cinnamon bricks leaning into moist earth;

short kurtas and long tops repurposed off mumma’s saris,

red block prints on off-white, or patterned in blue-green,

musty and mothballs mixed into an overpowering scent,

to the first little dress for the new addition to the family,

designed off papa’s full-sleeved shirt, dark teal, shimmery;

amidst new threads and ones which repaired and healed

the broken, the torn and the ruined a thousand times over,

within cement walls reeking of paint and water seepage,

you hunched over the beloved old machine, feet on the pedal

brows scrunched, hands coordinated with an ingrained expertise,

your smiles stitched in every loop and turn, hair peppered in time,

wrinkles etched into the skin, eyes focused through bifocals—

an evolving image sewn into volatile memories.