The precincts of the temple
Under the shade of the tree
I glance upon orange flowers
Between silver threads plaited neatly
With betel stained teeth she smiles at me
And offers the garland to show me
The whiff of the flowers rings in my head
The petals are soft and so delicate
The moment holds me still
Until I descry
That I almost missed her coarse hands
The callused toes and the ill guise
With the polythene bag as her carpet
And a scissor her only device
She cuts the thread thriftily
To hold it between her toes
With the other hand by precision
She knots the flowers in rows
It’s in that instant
I realize that
The story of the garland
Lies unfinished ……
If the garland makers role
Is diminished
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