Cars are colliding on my stomach
Right now, your toy cars are cruising on my arms, my chest, my legs. The landscape of my body shaping your imagination. I wince as one of your cars collides with another on my stomach. Uh-oh, an accident, you proclaim before proceeding to summon a crack team of autorickshaws to the rescue. I lie back and watch you play. Who taught you these games? How do you know the difference between a Polo and a Mini? When did you learn to change your voice when you speak for the cars? You've abandoned your game now and have gone on to something else. Tomorrow morning you won't remember any of this. A year down the line, you may not even be playing with cars. A decade from now, you will positively recoil at the mention of your childhood stories. And one day, when you are grown up, I will tell her about how you raced cars on my body. She will nod in polite courtesy. And you will stand next to her with that familiar look of boredom and beg me to stop. You're just like your father, I'll tell you then. Just like your grandmother did to me.