'March Goes To The Market' by Mandira Pattnaik

March Goes To The Market

in her all-weather boots; hair parted down the middle, gathered in two spriggy bundles; Mother’s bamboo basket at her fair slim elbow, well-used purple purse with soiled farmland notes.

March is excited, stops on the trail, weaves a crown of twigs and tendrils, puts some golden wattle; wears the thing on her pretty little head; plucks a sweet cherry to toss it to the sparrow.
 
March skips down the path, March quips in Mother’s tone: Keep away from the farmer boys, keep away from panicky goats, keep away from the sudden showers that Spring often brings. March repeats, now shriller, now a whisper, until she reaches the safety of the crowd.

March jostles and elbows hurrying-scurrying peasant women; March gawks and peeps at strange-looking men; March buys melons and grapes and pomegranates; the basket too heavy for her.

March stretches her gleaming neck; March looks at the girls from the estate over the hill, wearing haute hats. March doesn’t envy them, or their uniformed chauffeurs, or their little purring cats, or their curled golden hair. March tries looking away, but her eyes disobey her. March tries not to hear when their big cars honk, or when the peasant women trail them with pleading cries, Buy from me! Buy from me! And, the farmer boys whistle too just as sunny Spring preens.

March freezes the moment; March goes home. March milks the cow, cooks a modest meal. March goes to sleep dreaming big things. This is how it is: the estate girls bring her marmalades and cream, boys in breeches offer to hold her hand, meadows over heads and sparkles on the floor, but alas, all in a loud goblin-party inside her damp, rough boots.