Sunday, August 16, 2015

Through His Eyes


They said I was special
“The first” they said
Even literature would be happy with the names with which they called me
Well, I wasn’t born then.

“Selfish”, “Scoundrel”, “Rogue”…
Few of the more sensitive words I get to hear howled around me every now.
Before I go any further, let me introduce myself…
I am just a child who still can’t speak - caught between parents separated
Imprisoned in my mother’s “care” (or so she wishes to think)
As a child stand I scared; crying my pain through speechless walls I stare.

Some see the tears in my eyes
The farthest they can possibly see.
What must be running behind?!
Would anyone dare to see?

“Selfish” he calls her, “Not-even-a-man” she calls him
Each ridicule the other with audience to gape at every rap
Not understanding the words yet understanding the running emotion
Unattended I ran-in between them-with nowhere left to run
The only spoof of their marriage remains in the engraved names of each other in their torso
Lest they forget the other’s

Each tore the other apart with words meant to rip one’s heart
Spitting choice words picked from the gutter at each other’s face
Along they went with their fight unbothered even if it was over my hovering grave
Battles they fought and perhaps wars they win
With my soul to bear the scars within

Scared, surprised and stunned I lay not knowing who will collect my shattering pieces
Off they drifted into the big secure spaces of their egos
Dragging me into shallow worlds I didn’t want to go.
Everything they go through seems real to them 
Everything about them except me.

I will know the “truth” somebody said someday
And understand who was right and who was wrong…
Would I care to think that way?
A ‘knave’, a ‘rogue’, a ‘rascal’ one day I shall be and blame it on everyone to deem my right to be
You can take all the time you want then and decide
The rights and the wrongs and anything in between
And settle scores for yourself

A lifeless life I have now
With pretentious words and spontaneous lies
Secure places with insecure lives
Everyone trying to replace the other.
Every time I look out through the window
And get to see a child holding on to the hand of his father
All I want is that and nothing more;
Yet searching for that hand that is never there
Grasping in vain into thin air 
A fatherless child am I… for no fault of mine
for everyone to mock and stare

“Thank You” Mom; “Thank You” Dad for gifting this life
I’d rather not have;  
Where your lives mattered more than me
Someday I look forward to repay thee…

2 comments:

Noopur Kothari said...

:( This is very sad!

Premalatha Dinakarlal said...

This is very very sad!
Every adult connected with this "story" must own moral responsibility.