The Last Bus

Standing barefoot.
Barren, huge crossroad.
They say it stops here,
the bus you are on.

Clutching, the doll you gave me
on my birthday the year before.
I try not to stain it –
for my hands are
bleeding from the sores.
knees skinned to the bones shake a little
cruel, lonely it was –
the road from home.

Biting my lips, to stall the pain
burying my face in the doll –
there is still that smell of you
the fragrance of safety,
the mirage of childhood.
Inhaling,
just a bit.
Too greedy to save it all.

It starts to rain
and I feel so cold.
Proud, defying – waiting.
I stand my ground
not for victory but to
hide my shame.
The tears
drown me a bit more.
There is nothing left,
even my shadow is impure.

Its getting darker
the birds are all gone.
I watch other kids, just like me but –
jumping all the way to their homes.
Some stand and stare at my rags
laughing at my doll.
Mock my dirty feet -
but my eyes, they all ignore

And then I am left alone,
at the crossroads
just like the evening before.
I am scared now–
wont you come back for me?
the last bus from heaven,
doesn’t stop here anymore?

© 2008 by Chhaya. All rights reserved
PS: the image is googled

I wrote this poem more than a year back. I didn’t have enough readers back then so I am re-posting it.

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Mothers and Sons

Mac hated his birthday. Especially for the last 8 years. He dreaded these visits.

'Don’t I give her enough money? Don’t I pay for those AC rooms and 24 hour attendant service? For God’s sake, she has a TV with cable in her room and so many people of her own age group. Why do I have to go to see her on my Birthday?'

'If I have to clock in those suffocating 10 minutes there then I better get it done with. I have been doing this for 8 years now. I better get used to it.'

He was through with the ritual in exactly 8 minutes after reaching the Old Age Home.

He walked towards his car, with that hated box in his hand.

He knew what was inside it.


'If she HAS to give me a cake then can’t she at least order it from an upscale bakery? Why does she have to bake the cake herself in the kitchen of the facility? Who eats this stuff now? loaded with sugar!'

The cake annoyed him more than his mother’s praises and kisses. His wife was right. He shouldn’t have come.

But then, his mother would refuse to eat and cry non-stop. And then she would have to be admitted in the hospital.

That would be really bad for PR.

After all, he was the VP of the biggest law firm in the city. Or perhaps in the whole state.
He put the box on the passenger seat of his dark Mercedes and drove towards his office. He never took his driver during these yearly visits. He knew how people talked.

Slowly, his mind focused on the day ahead. He had lunch scheduled with a client and then party in the night.
That’s how you celebrate your birthday. Not at a place full of dying people.

He stopped the car just outside his office and picked up the box.

He threw it straight into the garbage bin at the curb. It landed noiselessly, cushioned by the rotting refuse of the city.

A perfect shot.

He was an expert now. He had been doing it for 8 years now. Every year, the box went into that bin.

He drove on, forgetting all about it.

He never saw a pair of tiny hands reaching into the bin. Never saw a pair of eyes shining bright, half with tears and half with anticipation.
The kid could hardly reach it.

His face lit up as soon as he took the box out.

'I knew it!'

He jumped with joy, forgetting his filthy hands and tattered rags. Forgetting the fact that he had not eaten in 2 days.

Forgetting the cold. Forgetting everything!

He opened the box and there it was!

MAC

Written with frosting over the cake!

Exactly the same his mom would get for him every year! From the same place!

She had told him that an angel came and gave it to her for her little son on his birthday, every year!

'She must have told the angel to bring the cake even if she is not there!'

'Mom did not forget my 8th birthday! She could never forget!'

He stopped for a moment... closed his eyes and raised his face towards the sky. Someone had told him, that's where the God fellow lived.

"Thank you Mom. I love you. And I miss you. Please come back soon! "


And then he shoved a tiny fistful of cake in his mouth.


Not really bothering whether the cake bore his name or if it was the other way round.

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© 2009 by Chhaya. All rights reserved

image by Elizabeth Nourse (La Mère)

PS: Happy New Year to all my friends :)

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Sisters

She watches the little one,
looking out of the window.
The worn out doll,
clutched tight.
Too young to understand, yet
deep within, does she know?

Her heart aches more than her arms,
cradling the kid all night long.
Having to grow up in a moment,
her own childhood gone.
The tears remain unshed,
for ever and more.

"Can you call mommy again?
She should be home by now."
Innocent eyes look up to her.
Trusting the world’s
convenient lies.

She tries to hold her close
and whisper the truth,
as it should be told.
"She won’t answer the phone, little one.
Mom is not coming home anymore"

© Chhaya


image by William Adolphe Bouguereau (Two Sisters)

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