I stand by the stove, my face bent over
boiling rice. Bubbling over. There's a muffled drone
from the dishwasher.
In the background my husband plays the sitar.
Beatles' Yesterdays. My mother- in- law smokes her hookah
scented with rose essence.
I hear nothing, but wait for my mobile
to come to life. To hear its heart beat, for me. Once.
And my heart leaps as though I were given mouth to mouth.
I'm exhilarated for a split second before reading your
message - succinct. Impersonal. Calculated.
I erase the words quickly, shuddering like a broken animal
in the hand of a severe circus-master who enjoys
teasing his captives to obedience.
You've been doing this regularly. Because you know
that an SMS, even though heartless, sent by you
reminds me of your existence.
And I continue dreaming, of freedom, of you.
Walking - like a wild beast - back and forth in my cage.
And you can go on playing the circus-master' s role.
Curtesy: Kritya - A Journal of Poetry/ India