The Apple
It rains cats and dogs on the roof of this quiet building in Noida. The flats are silent, each door a fortress against grief. Mrs. Kapoor, ninety years young and breathing, drops her apple and it rolls toward my feet, red apple against grey concrete. Her hands shake like autumn leaves about to fall, as I return it to her palm. "Thank you, dear," she whispers, and in that moment, I see my own loneliness reflected in her watery eyes.
Days pass and we become friends, I bring newspapers to share and we chat. She shares stories of village farms and morning milk. Her corded phone sits patient, waiting for Sunday calls from her son. But the week is long waiting for the call, she says. So long. Soon I call my grandson, putting him on speaker to whom Mrs. Kapoor sings about a chicken who lost her eggs. Karan giggles for the first time in weeks. Word spreads through mailboxes, ten digits on sticky notes. Story Time Sundays by Mrs. Kapoor. Poetry readings. Shared tears. The building awakens.
Now, Bengali lessons echo in hallways, a multitude of Indian languages. Neighbour's' open doors. Soup appears when fever strikes. The apple keeps rolling, palm to palm to palm, carrying kindness like seeds on the wind.
Apple rolls past doors
thin walls become thick with love,
silence learns to sing.
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