Why? I want to shake you hard and ask, or persist in my usual strident shrill harridan mode why why when what oh really! But intrinsically, whittled to the core, it’s a why, and with the benefit of the silver that liberally peppers black, I know yes, there is no why, not really. It just is, like a thread that bravely put on a front for so long, patched and spliced a couple of times, but was gradually frayed at the ends; till one day that was it. Enough. So I tiptoe away from these flame points, and sit by and share your silences. Day by day, I say.

Pre-diwali Sunday.
They’re out to shop.
"buy, or you're done!"
Glassware, linen, white goods, dry fruits, dazzlers, danglers
lip gloss, chocolates, eyeliner. Steelware. Luggage.
Indian. Imported. Counterfeit.
Everything. Now. Grab!
Crowds.
Temple quality crowds on an auspicious day?
Jostling pushing loud thrusting grabbing
“keep moving keep moving, quick on thedouble march fast keept'yurrlefft”
I gasp.
Genuflect at the till-altar.
A stranger's sweat on my skin.
Push free to a white sky.