As alone as the sun at noon
You stalk the streets and like a Wordsworth
You behold her, single in the bus-stand:
Your Solitary Raver (a groundnut vendor)
Who curses her fate
In a pungent dialect.

You study her blistered, roasted feet
And your eyes move upwards
To take in the rest of her.
A nylon sari, gaudy blouse.
Ordinary torso, ordinary head.

Only her bare feet have stories to tell
Gnarled toes and abrupt corns
And bulging varicose veins...
And you make up her life
In your mind.