I met Mrs. Kumar twice in my life.
The first when I was an administrative assistant and she, the wife of a man who had climbed the slippery corporate ladder to become Head of HR. She looked resplendent in her aubergine sari of gold borders, and wore heavy jewelry, as if it was a wedding and not a corporate dinner. She banded with the wives of other directors and was inclusive of me too in a mirthful way, like people are when good fortune shows upon them. She spoke about her car and how it glided over roads. “Reminds me of a plane just about to take off,” her eyes brightened. She spoke of her children’s achievements, exotic holidays, the number of support staff she had hired.
All through the party, she lovingly looked at Mr. Kumar, who with the gang of equal men was getting one notch closer to unconsciousness, over whiskey.
equinox–
fitting my desires
to yours
Years later, when I meet Mrs. Kumar, she is the wife of a retired director. Her sari is sober to go with the grey of her hair. I walk up to her, half-expecting to hear her tales. She greets me absent-mindedly and says they have traveled in a cab. “Better not to have a car - the servicing, the chauffeur . . . so much expenditure. Cabs are the easiest to hire.” She shrugs and stays in the outer orbits of the ladies’ group, savoring each piece of finger food making their rounds on silver plates.
She doesn’t watch out for Mr. Kumar who is still losing consciousness over whiskey with the boys - the new horses of the stable - one of them being my husband.
summer attire–
the second innings
of our relationships  

Published in Paper Asylum (2018) -a book of haibun and haiku, shortlisted at the Rabindranath Tagore Literary Prize 2020.