When the clouds part, my grandmother is on the move. Her locks

flap in the wind, she hides the flaps on her skin. She always finds

a way to burrow inside herself, to position her limbs

in the shadows of the sun. She runs faster each time reality catches up. 

India rises from its trout-lipped slumber and her basket

is already filled with buds. Jasmine sugarcoats her 

already-strained smile (she’ll have to turn the corners by noon) and

prepares to string itself on garlands. Dodda works the jasmine’s

milky color to a lather and scrubs until a bumpy rash of rose

envelops 

her brown. Not cream; she will try again tomorrow. 

At 11, she bustles down flights of stairs. She kneads

dough, slices strips, until the salt that drips from her face

is enough 

seasoning. Until the blood that washes over her hands

hides the henna, tinges dough sindoor-colored. So she

sweeps a mark across her forehead and prays. Clasps her 

hands, asks for a new face. 

The clock finally chimes 12 and she stacks 4 tiffins of lunch

and dons a crimson sari to wash out the weakness. Her feet

are quick. Her husband’s are quicker. When he’s through, her

wavering teeth—more ocean than stronghold—attack 

her own hands over and over and recrudesce 

in waves over and over and 

3 PM and she practices teetering spoons on her palms to

prepare for the weight of the world on her shoulders. Her

daughter-in-law is growing grayer and frailer (men like a

little meat on the bones—more cooking for Dodda). Her

niece, who once painted the solar system on her eyelids, let

her 

planets get lost on earth (the ones who aren’t pretty need

to be smart —Dodda can’t marry them off right away). And her

daughter who runs at the same time as she does every morning

to connect with the life she once had (she shuffles through a

gated neighborhood in neon Adidas while Dodda turns around

to watch for hungry eyes, wearing sandals that peel at the

heels). 

The nightjar sings in tune with her landline. Quiet, subliminal

darkness unfolds the cloak of nighttime. 13,000 miles away

we are greeting the sun. We prattle about carnivals and tank

tops, about new friends and opportunities, about technology,

about goals. “Dodda, when will you come to see us?” “Soon,

bungaru, soon.” Then she tucks her self in with a blanket that

steams like rice and dreams her wishes into our 

realities.