By the bamboo fence

beside open fields,

part abandoned

part cultivated,

gatherings would happen

between dada Rassoul,

Munimjee uncle

and father, often

the latest release,

its plot, its cast

talked about

at length, with some

local politics thrown in,

and I could sense

the chance to visit

the picture house

father riding with me

there, I riding with him

back, in the intervals

tasty snacks enjoyed.


Stevenson Lane then

was alive, a haven.