Micky

Freedom, that has been lost longer than found, narrates the same story all over again— My mother telling me not to overdress in garish colors, like the making up for something in bursting color, all the jingle and fabric that continues to give way.

When the girl who shares the cab with me talks loudly of going to Bombay, says waise hi and I am saddened, shamed in front of the driver.

I want to say don’t shout from rooftops.

It’s yours to keep, always was.

Make it routine, like butter on your bread.

Or at least pretend—

Her hair is dyed, nails manicured, a face carefully set in foundation. She eyes me in the rear view mirror, just in case.

And I know. All of Bombay won’t fit in those eyes.

Meanwhile a child, middle-classed between his parents on a scooter looks at her, mesmerized by her radiance, for she’s become the sun.

It is never going to be enough. The ‘Micky’ spelt on his cap covers the distance of ages in a flash.

Walt we make our own Micky here.

We make do, overdo, doodledoo.