Aaji, there was an eleven-year-old girl
who sat on our doorstep
during the feast
of your mourning.
She would not cry or eat
                         sleep or speak.
Now they make dolls
who do all those things.
                         
                         And I could not explain
                         about my taut
                         four hours of sleep
                         in the closet, on the floor
                         with your softly dying clothes.