pigeons sat over the wire
two men looked down their roof
the watchman lay on the charpoy below
I moved my lips as he moved his hands
the tea vendor brought out his stove
it was to be a few minutes before tea boiled

the room was empty, the cot was still
putting shoes on I went downstairs
a milky white day had begun to come out
the man with greying hairs, combed neatly
sat near the khomcha, I stood leaning over a car

tea was poured, to begin each’s day
the man with greying hairs went for labour
the tea vendor touched the money to his forehead
I stood a while looking in the distance

the watchman still lay over his charpoy
I climbed up the stairs, huffing and puffing
lying on my bed, coming back to myself
thinking of the day, of where am I in it

nothing much had been brought over from the night
nothing much was told out of room’s window’s sight
nothing much was there in the day to delight
I got up, thought of the tea, and began to write

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