Siesta

After lunch
when the files had ceased buzzing
over the food-littered floor
and the air
was still and heavy
when only the soft plop
of drops from a leaky tap
into a half-filled tin pail
broke the quiet
my wrinkled grandmother
would ask me to comb
her long wet hair
and as the comb furrowed
through the dark shining mass
and the smell of her coconut hair oil
mingled with the warmth of
midday sunshine
her lips would tell me
of how an illiterate peasant
had obtained the gift of rhymes
from the Goddess Saraswati
of how the new-born Krishna
had escaped the wrath of
a jealous king
and of many other
such bygone things
I would look on
with sleep-drunk eyes
as she recited Sanskrit verse
in a grating sandpapery voice
and when
her eyes closed in comfort
and her breathing became as rhythmic
as the poetry she had chanted
through the long lazy afternoon,
I would tiptoe
Up to the old wall clock
to see
if time had stopped.