Her face is a pre- independent Indian make. Its pale white reminds of the British rule. Red rash on her cheek seems a remnant of old blood-shed during the despotic rule. Her orthodox society had nipped her love-pimple, but its hole remains. A miniature portrait of her parched paddy farm in an old drought gets visible in a mole below her nose. A stitch scar lies on her eyebrow like the carcass of a worry-mouse. There are wrinkles as the tree rings with imprints of life on her face. Now she looks at the hypocrisy around with a cauliflower-frown. Today’s plastic life doesn’t leave behind any impression on her visage. First printed in my book, Kanoli Kaleidoscope(Punkswritepoems Press,US), reprinted in The Literary Hatchet(Pear Tree Press, US), and then in The Elephant Magazine(issue #3).