A boy throws a stone into a pond. He caused a ripple.
It would dance, away from the centre to the edges
Where it falls off, back to time, to memory.
I remember when my father first thought me how to wash clothes
To take care of my own filth
The bones of my hands were barely up to the task
So like the girl at Ballaghat-Jaflong
I would spread it on a chunk of stone to rub in soap
Squeeze it in a feeble grip
Slap it repeatedly on the slab,
As long as my fistful lungs could hold breath
All the while wondering if it was not too much work
Yet father had it in him to tell the future
To see a ripple caused by a boy