Oosa of the Purple Hands

So we're sqwooshed in a bicycle rickshaw
from Bhairahawa to Lumbini like we're back in time.
An hour and a half by houses seemingly made of straw
small kids with tangly hair
tiny girls-eyes outlined with kajal
a cow wearing a necklace.
There's the familiar smell of burning plastic,
everpresent staring eyes.

We pass teen boys on bicycles
holding hands as they ride across a bridge.
A young boy driving a bullock cart,
leaning back on hay heaped to sky.
Tractors and bikes
toting megaphones blasting static-ey Hindi music.
There're egrets and water buffalo.
Countless children who call hello,
wave after us.

And then a long line of people snaking across the road
accompanied by a uniformed marching band in red coats with brass buttons.
As we draw closer, the road becomes blocked
and there is a woman dancing--
everyone crowded around her,
but on second glance she is a lady-boy,
flutters her eyes in K's direction.

A young girl comes up to us,
asks my name, then says, "how nice,"
and that we should dance.
"It's a wedding," she says.
Dozens of smiling kids encircling us.

When we say it's time to go,
Oosa says it was very nice to meet us,
sticks out her purple-dyed hand for a shake.