And Babarya poised

.. before a tin moon, holding my life's work, Phalke's studio, aloft in his hand. My thirteen year old son, dressed as Hanuman, bears aloft all the stories, past and present, and even the nature of how we will be forgotten or remembered in the days to come. Our lives held in a young palm. Among the deeply etched rivers/shifting rivers, the embankments on that palm, he bears us. Hie eyes still unknowing, he stares at us, like you might into a doll's house. And in response to our child's call for play, Saraswati and I come alive to relive our lives for our children, once again.