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Bambasara — the crossing, not just of streets but of chances, where a boy with a broken cartwheel asked for water and you gave him a whole monsoon.
Kumari Bambasara handu da. I remember. Even if you forgot.
Kumari Bambasara handu da — do you remember that road, maiden, where the dust smelled of rain and the tamarind trees bent low like old women sharing secrets?
Bambasara — the crossing, not just of streets but of chances, where a boy with a broken cartwheel asked for water and you gave him a whole monsoon.
Kumari Bambasara handu da. I remember. Even if you forgot.
Kumari Bambasara handu da — do you remember that road, maiden, where the dust smelled of rain and the tamarind trees bent low like old women sharing secrets?
