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A dangling doll, I
In monstrous, over-sized pyjamas,
Waded through the washed up verandah
On a fine colourful doted-day,
For the much-awaited fun,
Suddenly I stumbled,
Tumbled down and slipped into
The first taste of sweet pain through a cut on
My right eyebrow –
Blood trickled on
My clean milk-white dress and painted more
Intense patterns than Dali’s surrealistic sequences,
Time’s tiny fingers drew diagrams of nightmarish mirth!
But mirth always has a cut off point, you know.
So it stopped in crisp clots and before long
Stopped a wrinkled woman’s work of the day-
She was making a propitious pattern on the floor, broke
An old man’s silence of wisdom, screamed
A mother out of panic of love left
Everything to live without
But a living doll!
And a father’s day ran faster than he thought that
I ought to be taken to a surgeon.
As he drove off fast
He postponed all his plans-
Much awaited for the day.
On my right eyebrow I have a scar,
I see it now in the mirror of moving moments,
Whenever I caress the cute cut-mark
I feel a mother’s touch
And a father’s fortitude
That healed the wounded moment
Of that day-
Years ago.
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