Four Indian women and a small boy, in the Dysart playground, a warm late August afternoon.
Behind large sunglasses and sealed lips, the youngest face is smooth, soft, symmetrical. She is poised on a bench, holding a fine posture; scarcely moving, except to place her hair, she looks into her iphone and out again as if her vocation were only to be a most beautiful object of admiration, the embodiment of this most beautiful of afternoons.
The second youngest, mid-twenties, is paler, rounder and her body’s softness is that of a young mother. Her movements are gentle in tending her son, padding barefoot around behind him in the sand playarea, proud and joyful with him today in this warm and pleasant sunshine.
About fifty, the third’s movements are more definite: when she puts her hair back, it is brusque and effective. Sitting, she too has poise, a beautiful woman, but she is viewing the scene sharply and comments her observations to the others. She rises and whisks the boy up with great control, plays awhile. She will say when it’s time to go.
In her seventies, the oldest wears a flowing white sari, she places and replaces her headscarf, now elegantly draped around her face, bespectacled and also beautiful. The folded skin of her forehead and mouth is solemn, but will accentuate her smiling too as she sits with her family in the sun. Taking the boy’s hand, she walks gracefully, slowly, supporting his jittery, energetic first steps.