The rain comes like it belongs only to me.
My grandmother loves the sound of it on the metal paint cans that she has filled with mud from
the garden, mud that I lifted in my own muthi, my palm, like that song we sang in school from
that old movie, nuné muné baché teré muthi mai kya hai, little children what do you hold in your
And we say, muthi mai hai takdeer hamarei which I think has to do with our future. But how can
a future fit in my hand? Even mud trickles through it. Even that.