I found it in a biscuit tin under his bed,
soft as cloth, folded so many times
the creases had become a map.
Name. Father’s name. Number of members in household.
Someone had crossed out five and written four
the year my uncle went to the city and did not write back.
Rice: so many kilos. Sugar: so many grams.
Kerosene: whatever was left when the shop
remembered to open.
He used to stand in that line before sunrise,
he told me once, laughing,
with a cloth bag and a pocket of patience,
and the shopkeeper would say come tomorrow
in the same voice for thirty years.
On the back he had written, in pencil,
the names of officials he had bribed with mangoes,
and next to each one, how sweet they were that season.
It was his only revenge: a record.
Now the cards are digital. My phone holds my whole life.
I have never stood in a line before sunrise.
But last month a website asked me to prove,
with seven documents and a selfie,
that I am who I said I was —
and for a moment I felt his hand on my shoulder,
heard him laugh and say
*see, beta, the country is modern now.
Now even the queue can follow you home.*
