putty

Women, finally, are putty in my hands. This is a woman waiting for her beloved, perhaps under a tree. I did not make a tree because I ran out of putty. Perhaps she is singing 'Ab ke sawan ghar aaja'. Or 'ajahun aaye balama, sawan beeta jai'. But if she sits too long in the rain, all the putty will dissolve, and she will be one washed-up woman. It is better that she sits at my window instead. Maybe I can make a tree for her later. I will do anything for clay women, but not right now, maybe later.