In between those old pages of the book
In the creaking doors of that old house
In the moving curtains hanging on the rods
In the light passing through them
You will find me
In the cover of the cracked jar
In the smell of the cooked fish
In stitches of the torn cushion covers
In the unmatched color of that thread
You will find me
In the roads going to the market
In the roads, the pits and puddles of mud
In the season of winters and rain
and on the souls of your chappal
You will find me
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