She rings the doorbell,
one hand balancing a big tokri of vessels
and a shoulder weighed down by cast off clothes.
“Get those old clothes we sorted,” shouts Ma
as she chats up the woman.

She’s dressed like the sun.
Bright yellow dupatta sprinkled with orange spots.
The blouse and skirt like the blue sky;
the smell of the earth clinging to her skin,
and the rims of her eyelids kohled black.

The vessels clink together
as she separates the ones Ma wants.
Few for more –
she bargains as she holds on
to all she’s got.

And after the deal is done,
she adds my clothes to her bundle,
puts the turban on her head
to balance the tokri,
and slinging the potli across her shoulder
carefully rises to leave.

Leaving me to wonder
where my old clothes go,
and where her tenacity comes from.