The moon glides
Like the music of a flute
Between the built-up tower blocks
On Mumbai’s waterfront.
Mr Pushpat, angular
As a saxophone, has
Sweet peas – pink, purple,
White. They are his gift.
And in exchange he wants
Foreign coins, a letter
Sent from overseas. It’s a deal,
Sealed with a self-addressed envelope.
And when it’s done, Mr Pushpat
In his flowered shirt
To match the sweet peas,
On worn chappals, precariously,
Religiously avoiding sand fleas,
Spiders, washed-up crablets. Beyond,
The moon plays its own capriccio.