"Too rupiss saar??" she pleaded.
At the red-light.
"What for?
Why me? In such traffic?
How, now?
Where's coins?"
I fumbled. Being but a beggar myself.
"4 baby, saar...!" she pointed, counted.
On my behalf,
At embryos and then, some older.
Barely.
Motionless, drugged on boot-polish, perhaps,
The baby lies.
The toddlers walk.
Pouting lips, searching bosoms.
I fish out a note.
Not disposed to coins.
Paper turns to milk,
Rice,
Green leaves.
We smile.
Pleaded.
Pleased.
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