She sits there, staring at streaks of soft rain
sliding down the window into nothingness.
Her calves ache from standing for hours,
waiting for the scalpels to fall
and the sun to shine on her.

Her little one, no bigger than a baby seal,
clings to something she doesn’t yet know — life.
Only months ago, among the colours of a newly painted room,
she hurried the baby into the wards.

She waits for the clouds to part,
praying — hoping — for the vending machine
to dispense free cash.
The baby’s father ran the moment he knew.
Alone now, she has thousands waiting to be paid —
due on paper she cannot afford to read.

She shifts in her small iron chair;
it squeaks as a muscle moves.
From another’s phone, the world speaks.

She learns —

of countries fighting over borders and land,
of sons killing other women’s sons
because an imaginary man commanded them;
of friends scamming friends for fame on an app;
of millions awaiting justice
while billions gather gold with bloodied hands.

Her head throbs with a violent ache.
She turns from the window to her dry palms
and remembers the astrologer who once promised her
a bright future.
She weeps into her hands
and dreams of the lullabies she may sing to her daughter.

She would not ask the one beside her to turn the volume down —
perhaps the news is how the other survives
as her own reality burns.
She wipes her tears, searching for words
that might steady her soul,

as the nurse walks toward her
with news that may either save her breath
or drown it whole.

– Himanshu Pande