She has never been exposed to the expensive tests of the hypocritical hospitals. She chooses the underneath of a mango tree. Bright rays fall down- as though from the lamp in a delivery room- through the gaps in the canopy of leaves. Kallu, my mom’s pet goat, lies on the dry sand. Her neck stretches till the South Pole. And her back legs bend like the bows. Murmur of leaves is heard instead of a midwife’s whisper. A soft bleat rises now like the shoot of life. Kallu’s tongue vacuums all the stains of an old sin. Broken umbilical cord hangs like a symbol of separation. Finally, a lump of inner dirt gushes out and peace enters in. First appeared in The Literary Hatchet.