Her large eyes still gleam up
beside me, warier than ever now
my alien bulk is so tentative.
Scared fingers play on with a coloured rag,

nearest comforter to Mother
unless a bit of bright sari creeps around
the seat in front and can be fondled.
Like an 8-year-old almost anywhere

yet her parents last looked at her
some hours ago, at a roadside food halt
when Father's silent nod
brought her scurrying over my legs

like a spider crab. Returning,
she fixed me hard again, while gnawing
at her sawdusty biscuit.
The raucous hi-fi boomed, the Hindu heroine

dutifully squealed
and the sun went down. Cool night air
now rushing through jammed windows
chills the girl to her Topsy's ribbons --

handling my coat, I make a gesture
of covering her. A thin brown arm,
stiff as a peg, rejects me. In front
her kid brother is still cosseted and dandled.