Mrs. Sharma

Every morning Mrs Sharma tries to drown out the call to prayer
by Maulvi Azeem Ali.
She turns the knob of the mixie to full
her hands vibrate as she holds the lid closed.
Even now, after years,
she doesn't know how long the prayer runs.


So her mixie whirls, till Mr. Sharma asks
if a man can get coffee in this house.
He has to tap her shoulder and gesticulate.
‘Can’t you ask your friend, Mr Abbas,
to talk to this maulvi
at least he can reduce the volume
who wants to hear his cranky old voice?’.
‘Every morning I am disturbed. Somehow I can tolerate it in the
afternoon and evening, but morning is too much,’ she grumbles.


Mr. Sharma drinks his coffee and reads the paper.
’Fourteen people die in anti-CAA protests in Delhi,' he announces
to no one in particular.
With one last slurp from the coffee mug
He gets up and walks towards his charging cell-phone,
scrolls through family whatsapp groups,
announces that Smriti is still dating that christian boy
(my poor sister, having to cope with her heart-patient husband and a troublesome daughter),
leaving Mrs. Sharma feeling annoyed at these two men.
Maulvi for the disturbance and Mr. Sharma for ignoring her troubles.