Moon at Half Past Noon

Before the sun hits Badrinath’s peak,
he’s sweeping pine needles from his leaky tin roof—
each stroke scritch-scratching the quiet.

Below, the Alaknanda’s catching first light.

His borrowed sneakers crunch on frost
as the local goats come skittering,
lost without their morning rotis.

He sighs, breaks last night’s chapati.

The village cries of milk pots clanging,
a pressure cooker’s hiss,
while his arthritic fingers knot—like this—
the jute rope around his woodpile.

Same as yesterday.
As thirty years. As his father’s name
still carved in the deodar doorframe.

Then—A stink of diesel.
A glint of steel.

The Red Sea comes
chewing paan masala,
reeking of Delhi’s exhaust.

“Arre, pahadi uncle!” it sneers,
“Still playing shepherd?

The world burns—and you count your fucking goats?”

The old man spits. “Better than counting corpses, beta.”

He offers stale gur-chai in a cracked Bournvita mug.

The Red Sea kicks it over.

“They’re coming for your hills next,
you know. Mines. Resorts. Pilgrim traffic.

Your grandson will drive a taxi in Haridwar
and curse your ghost for leaving him nothing.”

The old man watches a langur steal
the last guava from his tree.

“Maybe. But today the rhododendrons are blooming
near Auli.

Today the milkman’s daughter
married the schoolteacher.

Today is enough trouble without borrowing yours.”

The Red Sea snarls, pulls out a phone, shows videos of riots, of men like him beaten on highways.

“See? SEE?”

The old man turns back to his fire,
pokes the embers.

“I saw worse in ’62.
Still grew potatoes after.”

A pause. Somewhere, a myna mimics the vegetable seller’s call.

The Red Sea shrinks to just a stain of Zarda spit on the mud.

The old man covers it with ash, then whistles for the stray dog to lick the teacup clean.

Later, when the NGO jeep comes asking

“Do you feel neglected by development?”
He’ll say “Haan ji,” and take the free solar lamp.

But tonight, he’ll teach his grandson
how to find morel mushrooms
where the landslides left fresh scars.