I watch her hobble.
The walking stick makes a ratatat sound on polished marble.
I watch her bent form stop-go and shuffle across the room.
I watch him by her side. Gray-haired, worried. Alert to every move she makes.
They’ve been together since 1945.
Ups and downs. Almost rags to, well, good.
No, the doctors don’t know why she’s ill as yet.
From one corner of the window, a golden temple spire is visible. Siddhi vinayak.
On the far horizon, the bandra-worli sealink cuts a lazy line across silver.
What will be will be.