Under an ancient banyan tree, on a concrete square
sits an old woman mending torn clothes.
Every now and then, she stops,
reflects, looks at the world passing by
and goes back to her mending,
oft tending to her gashes and scars,
 not visible to the harried world.

She inhales. She exhales, resolving not to fail,
trying to make every breath count.  Every stich count.
Life is ceaseless.  But didn’t she stop living years ago?
She mumbles, patting the couple of pillows
on either side of her, and sighs, resting for some time.
 She stretches her legs; the long, uncut nails of her toes
 get entangled in the frayed duree that a Good Samaritan
had given her some time back.
She talks to the sparrows, mynas, warblers,
 cormorants and sunbirds, but is not very fond
 of the lapwing strutting around. She finds it a trifle vain.

She perspires and gasps, like the scorched earth.
When will the showers come?Maybe, when the petty- minded selfish folks
leave the face of the earth.
She smirks at this random thought,
but chokes at the rampant atrophied indifference, and sighs. 
She stops in mid -sigh bewitched by the somersaulting
 and screeching parakeets.
 Rejuvenated, she gets up again,
bracing herself for the pending repair work.
When will this world be repaired? She asks no one in particular,
and puts the next stich.