Washer Woman
It is midday,
she beats white sheets
on stone.
Shapely calves tighten,
knee deep in water,
feet firmly settled
around pebbles
grown over with moss.
Water is her mirror,
unstained, clean blue
mountain stream
in Northeast Kashmir.
A hamlet where smoke
rises in columns,
evening sun stretches
languidly, yawns,
throws itself upon her.
A day is ending,
she carries her load
on a horse drawn cart.
The sun disk lingers,
a giant embryo
that has not formed
all its limbs.
A martyr's heart
that has lost all its
limbs, staying
on the warpath, making
a stake.
Water reflects
ripeness of the sun,
unveiled shyness
of the moon:
an impossible union.
Rhythmic sound
of motion, grinding,
mingles with echoes
of sweet little bells
on the horse's neck,
as his sleek body
plunges into night:
hoof taps on a dirt road,
ten thousand years old.
[© Lalita Pandit, July 16, 1997].
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