it is us. we are dreaming together again – soaring through the sky wrapped in the promises of a hanging full moon. the night has us gently in her palm, but soon she will tire – and leave us to tumble through the darkness … 
down, down, to a place where our thoughts and words will be stolen by the roaring of a dying muffler, and our eyes will be filled with the stories of other dreamers, and the night cows who graze sleepily in the quiet hours.
in blinding heat we see flashes of jasmine and marigolds, ripened fruits fermenting on the roadside, and the sandy earth stirring, awaiting the violence of the monsoon. as i turn my head, india turns herself upside-down – the winds of saris sweeping the streets with golden dust. 
my hands touch her first, wrists bound in jingling bangles, and palms stained with ash-orange henna. i cover my hair, lower my eyes, and disappear. in sarojini nagar he opens his eyes and looks up. i am no longer me, but her, and he is no longer him, but them.
