Dressed
in cherry red
and golden seams
in her prime,
she ,
slightly blinded
by the afternoon sun
emerges,
sedately
from the maternal box,
a Kanya-Daan,
by the man in the long coat.
Destined
to be,
maybe,
indulged initially,
rubbed
sometimes the wrong way,
that too
with some dirt;
sometimes,
spat on,
sometimes
twirled around
in place,
and
spun and
thrown around
by fellows
exhibiting style...
Hurting
at being
flung at
three wooden,
unmoving types,
out there on "bail",
untouched except
by
middled wooden "faces";
Sometimes
being
swept across the mud,
Sometimes
flicked here and there,
Sometimes
lofted high up
to fall
helplessly at the mercy
of the watchers,
and
Sometimes,
even being called
Doosra
although
a Pehla
by right;
Being thrashed
to the ropes
and stopped by
unrelenting chasers
and throwers,
as the public
madly applauds,
impervious
to her wounds
and her mind.
Sometimes,
late in the evening,
her tears
cover the ground,
but
the crazy
blinded folks
call it dew.....
and carry on.
The Game of Life
continues,
and she ages,
seams unraveling,
misshapen attitude,
and faded color.
A new box
in brought out,
with so many new ones
preening inside,
and eyed by fellows
in long coats,
and arms that speak,
she
gets relegated
to the "has beens"
as
a kind gent,
wipes her wounds,
takes a second look at her,
shakes his head,
and
drops her inside
the box.
