Friday, October 22, 2010


In her layette she looked fair.
‘Nimisha’, parents called her.
When aged five, polio plucked the strings,
Which  moved her legs,
And as a string less violin, her legs lay.
In wheel chair she grew up,
Along with her mother’s tension,
And father’s anxiety.

Rustic children wish her,
But nobody takes her
To the festival
In the shrine rural.
She wore new dress,
But as the butterflies in her frock,
She also cannot flit
To the shrine yard.

Today also, the cough waves
Shake her lungs.
Drum beat and cymbal clash distant
Move her fingers in rhythmic wind.
Clarion in her ears does resonate,
And does ripple thoughts divine.
She never knew
Pneumonia packing her soul.

Serenity of twilight lost,
As drums and cymbals did again outburst.
Few knew Nimisha swooned.
Later, people murmured,
“Being holy, an apt day it is.”
In emptiness infinite,
Parents knew her truly.
Wheel chair in to the dust withdrew.


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