​Winter afternoons 
Red chillies strewn on terraces 
The old city warms up 
A sugarcane cart snails ahead 
Small scores of children 
Eyeing it happily 
The old lady comes to her door 
Sits on the stone street 
Letting her fingers graze through millet

Winter evenings 
The torches on the fort flare up
Lamps at the city’s gate burn 
Sounds of talkies reach us unevenly 
While the scent of stewing mutton 
Awakens everyone slowly 


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