An Old Woman

An old woman grabs hold of your sleeve and tags along. She wants a fifty paise coin. She says she will take you to the horseshoe shrine. You've seen it already. She hobbles along anyway and tightens her grip on your shirt. She won't let you go. You know how old women are. They stick to you like a burr. You turn around and face her with an air of finality. You want to end the farce. When you hear her say, ‘What else can an old woman do on hills as wretched as these?' You look right at the sky. Clear through the bullet holes she has for her eyes. And as you look on the cracks that begin around her eyes spread beyond her skin. And the hills crack. And the temples crack. And the sky falls with a plateglass clatter around the shatter proof crone who stands alone. And you are reduced to so much small change in her hand.