Camels, horses and a fish basket

My grandmother had

five Arab camels

six Greek horses

and a fish basket.

She tethered them

to the pillars surrounding

her tile-roofed house.

It was like a playground there,

echoing with children’s laughter.

At earliest dawn

when even the morning star

hesitated to appear,

she swept the courtyard

scoured the dishes

cleaned her teeth

lifted her eyes to the low horizon

made a quick obeisance.

Then she filled her stomach

from a small pitcher of rice-water

and set off eastwards

with her fish basket.

A cool breeze untouched by light

held her hands, accompanying her

and wiping away her fatigue.

Amidst the distant sailing boats

pushing towards the shore,

in the horizon, the sun

red as her betel-juice stained lips

would kiss the sea and laugh

as soon as it saw, upon the shore,

the waiting woman.

When she returned, after

selling her fish in one village

and another, she filled the empty basket

with rice, tamarind, chillies, snacks

for the children; a bundle of firewood

and a pot full of toddy.

She was home by the evening,

holding hands with spirits and demons,

sages, sirens and goddesses.

The camels and elephants followed behind.

After she bathed and spread her mat,

chewing on her betel leaves

she would begin,

while the children slept

on the lap of the siren.

The camels chewed their cud

and the horses neighed, shifting

from one leg to the other.