We huddle around Ma as
our gabled tin-roofs vibrate
during round-moon nights,
when bee-hives drip like wasted howling desires
of an elephant tethered to the banyan tree trunk.
Trailing his finger through the map,
my brother who thought maps
are exact replicas of the world,
assures us: father lives just half-a-finger away
Sometimes we sprinkle charmed mustard seeds
and wish they won't sprout foliage.
During evenings of fish-fry aroma,
our wooden doors moan creak sigh.
During full-moon nights, honey coloured,
doors don't take permissions before
flinging themselves open
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