Sunday, 18 December 2011


Sometimes in life,
We come across somebody,
Unknown, unseen,
Someone so special, close to the heart,
It seems you do have some link,
It sooths your soul, your mind,
Fills peace, in this chaotic life,
Charm, over this dead face,
Smiling fake everywhere, all the time,
Wordsworth met the solitary reaper,
And I…The countryside lass….

That day, so hungry I was,
So went to a stall,
To feed on some sweet n sour,
Was sitting, beside the stall,
When came, to the same stall,
A poor girl,
I gazed at her,
Rubbed my eyes bewildered,
For I had never seen before,
A girl in that stall,
A tigress she was,
Prancing fearlessly in her kingdom,
So poor with bucks,
So scanty with built,
With a small kid,
Perhaps her brother, on her lap,
A torn blanket, on her shoulders,
For that was all she had,
To wrap her,
Against the icy wind outside,
And the blood freezing weather…       

She was beautiful,
Her eyes, so sharp,
Adorned with raven eye lashes,
And face, crafted so adroitly,
By the hands of the almighty himself,
Were forcing me to gaze,
At that strange belle,
And her every action, every move,
With utter magnetism,
A pleasure beyond this world,
Yes, she indeed was beautiful…

For a tea, she asked,
And then waited,
With her impassive face.
I was confused,
Totally lost in her,
Guessing about her life,
Her world, in my mind,
Whether that pale face,
Was arrogance, or innocence,
Ah’ It was a maze,
An illusion before me,
So hard to crack, still,
Making me crave even more for it…

She never looked at me,
Neither to any other lad,
Didn’t give a smile,
Didn’t talk to anyone,
Just waited in silence,
It seemed there was something,
Something so painful, in her heart,
Something so strange with her,
Tough to be deemed, to be fixed.
I kept gazing,
Till she got her tea,
Which she gave to that kid,
And then left…

But my heart couldn’t stop,
I followed her,
To her place,
Oh’ It left me dumbstruck,
With a numb heart,
For at her home,
A small hut,
Was an old lady,
Her mother in law she was,
Blind, poor, ached,
Of her only son’s demise,
Her only crutch,
For these dimming days of her life,
Her only hope, her boy,
Yes, a son, is the apple,
Of every mother’s eye,
And that girl,
Yes, that countryside lass,
Was his wife, a widow,
That was all she was,
With a son,
Which earlier I assumed her brother,
And a mountain of responsibilities,
From money, to her son,
To the old mother,
This, was her pain,
Her grief, the reason, of her silence,
In that heart, so pure inside,
And that pale face,
Was neither arrogance,
Nor innocence,
For that face, was a consequence,
A consequence, of the cruel happenings,
Consequence, of the butcher land around,
O’ I can’t forget that day…

Filled with silence,
Brimming with sympathy,
And respect for that girl,
Praying for her good,
I went on for my home,
The princess of that ruined castle,
Was indeed, The tigress of her kingdom…

                                                         -  Kshitiz Upadhyay 

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