Heat
Kunjana Parashar
Giant ceiling-fans whirr on mechanically, barely staving off the sweat
that begins to collect at our pits like bodies of saltwater. Think
of all the mangoes, I tell myself. Coolies pass by—their necks
shining with the cruelty of heat, while new mothers behind them,
hold their babies like uncomfortable packages, dupatta falling.
I try to remember the good of summer still: two ruddy shelducks
with their loud honking in the sky. Rosemallows with their green hips
swinging in the breeze. Endless glasses of thandai and sherbets on my
forehead like rain. But the wheels of old trains turn so loud I want to
grease them myself.
