Steps in the house with a bunch of marigolds, rose and hibiscus
puts near Mum's altar, picks the chalk, the bucket and mug
washes the front space outside the front door
creates rangoli pattern.
9 am, her second or third house already,
a grin for any family member whose eye meets her,
the gap of her lost front tooth a familiar sight in the building.
Another gappy smile for the neighbour's maid
both exchange their daily chitchat
hands deftly create rangoli patterns on the floor
an Indian morning tradition.
The same chores repeated house after house
vessels in the sink, the rooms, the bathrooms, the kitchen slab,
the thrash binned.
Up and down, just as the lift of the building.
her momentary respite when shouted for tea and breakfast
breakfast skipped, packed for her fatherless boys
tea, her energy booster, back to the loop again.
Up and down the lift and round and round from one house to another
as a Ferris wheel she spins till sun sets.
but there is another house still left
her own house,
chores need to be done; boys need to be fed her treadmill never stops.
Her daily milestone of ten thousand or twenty thousand steps or more
no smart watch to track, no one to pat and no one to share with.
A relief in every housewife's face, the moment
the morning doorbell rings, and the maid enters.
The housewife's smile more
warm for the maid than for the husband for reasons better known.
Backbone of every Indian household,
their tired backbones forgotten as their motor never stops to spin.
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