In May the whole of Jaipur sleeps on the roof.
Forty-four degrees at noon, thirty-six at midnight,
and the house below us breathing out the day's heat
like an oven somebody forgot to switch off.
So: the string cot. The red cotton sheet.
The matka in the corner sweating through its clay
the way I am sweating through this nightie,
which I bought in Johari Bazaar
for exactly this reason
and you haven't noticed.
Twelve years married. You haven't noticed.
Then you notice.
The moon is enormous tonight, low and orange,
sitting on the domes of the old city
like a ladoo on a plate.
My anklets are off. I took them off on the stairs
so they wouldn't wake your mother.
You hold one up now, silver, dangling,
and raise an eyebrow at me
the way you used to across my father's drawing room
when we were only allowed to look.
We're allowed now. We forget that.
Twelve years of bills and school fees and your mother's knees,
we forget we're allowed.
Come here, I say. It's too hot, you say.
I pour the water from the matka over my own wrists,
my throat, the back of my neck,
cold as a secret, running down,
and you watch it go
all the way
and stop saying anything about the heat.
The neighbours are on their roofs too. Let them sleep.
The moon has seen worse.
The cot creaks like an old ghazal.
I've waited twelve years
to hear you
lose an argument this well.
