Time on my tongue.
From the porch where the sharp midday shadow divides the earth into two: my cool mud house against the inferno outside— from this porch, I throw my left hand out, on its own into the scorching light for five minutes, and it returns red all over as if beaten with a bamboo, and wet under my mechanical watch, HMT Janata Devanagari.
I remove the watch and lick the sweat off the wrist: it is salty with a hint of steel from the watch cover.
I may well have tasted time. I may well have learned Devanagari by heart.