Do Plateon Wala Baaja

Today I spent time in the sun with Ram. She offered to oil my hair and I jumped at the opportunity. I sat on a low mudda in front of her and held the oil bottle. He poured a little on her palm and softly caressed my hair. I never realized her touch was so soft. She told me to cut my hair. I reminded her she wanted me to grow it. She got confused. Less than a minute and we were done. I protested. She protested. Her hands start hurting after a while, she said. I took her hands in mine and started to press them. She wanted a massage instead. I laughed. I ran inside enthusiastically and reappeared with a moisturizer. This time I massaged her. Her feet, her arms, her legs. All dry. Her parched skin soaked the cream rapidly. We talked about a vegetable. She explained a recipe. By now her skin was beaming in the sun. I proceeded with removing her rings to reach between her fingers. Smaller parts of her I had not touched. As she spoke about the first time she used a two piece telephone, my fingers ran over the bulging veins. Beautiful green veins protruding from her paper skin. I decided to go a little strong. It hurt her. She abused me in Derawali. I laughed and told her she needed to be stronger.

We sat quietly before she remembered something that she had left behind in Pakistan. Lost in the kaleidoscope of her million gleaming wrinkles I looked up at her. She said she had left behind 'do plateon wala baaja.' If we still had it, she calculated, we could have earned a lakh from it.