Pic Courtesy: © Moumita Mukherjee
A strange silence prevails this time.
It isn’t as if this time She has decided to be
and not make me see.
After every fall, I saw Her rising.
Then why is She feeling like a stranger this time
Is She seeing how I have progressed with each fall
mining our deeds, into darker pits? Strangers, yes perhaps, that is what She sees.
My autumn is Hers this time.
She feels, somewhere She has failed as a mother
She is trying to be a friend this time;
the friend of secrets.
Perhaps, I have revealed a bit too much in our friendly chats
that I never missed Her
except when She was needed.
‘If you expect from me, the mother inside me will be happy
If you don’t, She will be happier
But don’t make me a sadness
as the goddess in you can’t neglect
and She will be called again and again.’
I stare at that aural brightness
as just another household chandelier.
Her carved beauty as just another beautiful woman close by
That’s how much I own Her.
Her smile and anger both are owned
This time too, the expression isn’t devoid of an expression.
She wants to say something.
Then why are the echoes silent this time.
It isn’t sadness but more.
A strange silence prevails this time
of numbness within a numbness.