By Reena Subramanian
I asked me back
from the gods,
who held my fate.
Hear my quest,
return me at my best-
young, vibrant, sunny-
that I may wear her
like a summer frock,
and discard this cloak,
black, of charred roses.
Give me me of yore,
free of rancour.
Thus, I pled,
kneeling on marble, cold,
inlaid with shimmering silver,
in a temple enchanted, I’m told.
“Where is thy offering?"
intoned an oracle, wizened.
As I blinked, wavering,
came the voice, now heightened:
"Two unsullied, true, tear drops."
Relieved, I squeezed my woes-
my badge, my identity-
decreeing them into motion.
“Cry me an ocean.”
Nothing.
“A river.”
My face contorted
as if harbinger of waterworks,
to no avail.
“A tiny stream, a drop doused in misery,”
desperate now.
My eyes were still sub-Saharan.
Then, like a drunkard crawling
on all fours, realization seeped in.
Alas! But I had shed my
last tears wallowing in self-pity,
and had none now.
They were oceans, rivers, streams-
elsewhere.
Dejected, I stared at the veined silver
and abruptly froze.
As hallowed zephyr
brushed my cheeks,
lending me vision
mine eyes didn’t.
For silver they were not-but tears.
Tears glistening and not mine,
but of myriad before me,
with burdens transcending mine:
Death, disease, sacrifices
trumping my piques, quibbles, slights.
They flowed in meanders,
their intensity creating grooves
in receiving marble.
Each drop, haunted,
seeking the sanctum sanctorum,
like a beloved daughter
in a father’s embrace.
Shame slowly enveloped me,
as comprehension dawned, delayed.
Happiness and its cousins, I craved,
were akin to
a child’s second set of teeth-
waiting in the depths,
visible to none,
yet certain to have its day.
I carefully retraced my steps,
leaving, bereft of the self
I had avidly sought-
for had it, its turn,
and not now mine to mourn.
Yet arrived home in the
new embodiment
that had sought me.