Skype

My grandmother
holds up a half-finished #FF0000 pixel,
in an anxious voice loud enough
to traverse the seven thousand miles between us
asks if I like the colour.

Now, Internet speeds
in the Newest of Delhis
are from the 90s,
but can she hear the pardesi (but desi)
guilt in my assurance
that I love the scarf?

My grandmother smiles, then coughs:
adds a million particles
to the ppm of pm10
(thankfully, the PM is zen
about pollution.)

She coughs, and the audio splinters, reminds me
of how my voice kept breaking up
the last time I saw my grandfather's face
(his nostrils were stuffed with cotton,
against the poisonous air) -

Precious pixel-packing packets
lost somewhere in the seven thousand miles between us.