encounters, translated
translated
—lime soda amma—
A roadside tablespoon, held by shaky old hands.
She mashes sugar into a glass of soda like she’s breaking ice.
“Want salt?”
“Yes, please. What about your kids, mother?”
“None. No marriz. Didn’t need that complication.”
Her chuckle is throaty and delightful, like an irrepressible rocket.
“Fahty rupees.”
“Forty?”
“Fahty rupees. I’ve also passed Grade 2, you know?”
Her voice sounds like it has known laughter for eighty years.
—asking the locals-
A question.
“Brother, which way is the temple?”
A response.
“I don’t know, brother.”
A sheepish grin.
“I also got here with Google Maps.”
Hilarity, decanted.