By Dr Anamika Nath
(In the memory of unloved Miss X, Mrs Y, Sister Z and you and me)
Stepping stones to a damp building.
The green paints scrapping off, a window pane broken.
There, the wind bangs on the bedroom door.
And a soul clings to your skin.
It’s empty like a blank pistol.
Only the scales of a dwarf Goldfish, peeling like a snake, remains in a cloudy tank.
The bedroom is a maze, where you might lose it all-
Your voice, your song, your endorphins.
A black hole consuming the stench of skin, of blood, of the worn-out rug.
“police lines, do not cross” crumbled like the night
The memory stored safely in a revolving musical doll.
Footprints of the responders, rangoli of the aftermath.
Some swab sticks here and there, some slides broken, pervasive reagents, licked by dung beetles.
You don’t remember? Do you?
The drift of your tissues, the crack of your bones, the smack on your lips.
The school’s washroom, the crammed van, the paddy field.
They took it all- your nail clippings, your clothes, your identity in paper envelopes.
You will not be born again,
But your ovulation might begin
In a morning daily.
Hopefully!