Blue Rexine
A brass staple bites the blue corner.
Forty-two columns of indigo ink
smudged with parotta grease
and the damp sweat of five different hands.
Under the slow thump of the ceiling fan,
the auto driver, the night nurse, and the goldsmith’s clerk
lean over the low table,
watching the nib catch on grain.
The Gulf wife adjusts her synthetic pleats,
signing her initials in the red-ink margin,
her gold bangles clicking against a rusted cash tin.
A crumpled remittance slip from Doha drops to the floor,
thumbprint creases splitting the torn flap.
The shopkeeper’s plastic casing snaps twice,
indenting a score across the paper.
Black ink seeps into wood grain.
Outside, forty umbrellas clot under cold drip,
their dark shadows overlapping on the crumbling lime courtyard
as the heavy ledger binder locks the wire spine.