7 o' clocks of Littledom

Pinafores and stapled on handkerchiefs.
Books, exploding the seams of Mickey
Mouse bags. These hands held up tiny
Bata feet onto the aluminium and wooden
chariot.





Afternoon Board exams. Quiet streets, coconut sellers
taking a nap at courtyards of old family homes.






The chime of the bell is lost at busy streets.
Evenings, on the way to singing class, reciting the first
learned alphabets. The chronology is lost amongst the
fervour of growing up.






Sunday fish markets, in carefully plaited
hair. Sampling the samples, without being
offered. Sitting with grown ups in grown
up cafés. Hearing them talk about the
Movement. The movement is always on.





Learning all the punchlines of adverts on TV
so I can teach him what Surf really does. The stains
have special names on Television. They also
look colourful and un-stain like.





Dressed up for the pujas. A new shirt neatly
folded in by my mother. I am waiting to present
him a new year.