From my arm chair I could see my study
where my twelve year old daughter was rummaging in my cupboard,
perhaps looking for an old comic .
The music running in the stereo seemed to pause for a minute
as she found my old poetry book…..
I have never felt so naked.
There was something obscene about she holding that book.
That medium quality two hundred page not so eco friendly artifact
that had acted as a vessel into which I poured myself day in and day out.
Mothers and daughters should not read one’s poetry.
There is something obscene about the whole thing.
I saw her flipping through the pages,
torturing me with her occasional pauses.
I tried to read her as she read me like a book,
while my racing heart beat provided the background score.
Yes, I had loved at one point.
Yes, I had anger long long ago.
Yes, I had believed.
I had desired and I had dared to desire.
I had spoken. I had rebelled.
I had written.
I wanted to tell her.
But I did not.
The poet whom she was reading would have told her.
But I am not that guy, am I ?
This work by Rakesh R is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 2.5 India License.
