Independence
The removalist truck was almost full.
Beds were put in,
tables turned.
Belongings squeezed in,
longings veiled.
It was the turn of the fridge.
Fridge was hers
Things I had in it
were kept out in cold
to warm up and wither
until they find a place
cold enough
to call their home
Garlic bread half-eaten,
curries unsure,
biryani from two nights before
All waiting
past their prime.
Then came the turn of the washer.
Washer was mine.
Her things lying in the laundry
shirts, skirts, undies
whisked away
as if shamed for being
caught wet, longing.
She continued to be cold.
I had to come clean.
Fridge was hers
Washer mine.
It was a grey morning in August.
Next day was the 75th anniversary
of India's independence.
Mine had perhaps just begun.
Comments