The most unfrequented quarter of the town, they always told,
Quite a prison it was, for a mischievous six year old;
That was the day we moved in, cloud envelopes had brought a chill,
But it wasn’t long before I found the next-door girl staring aghast from behind the grille.
She looked much elder but it was hard to keep her queer, eccentric disposition covered,
The benign look, those bewildered eyes spoke long tales of agony, of being abhorred;
My little self catered a friendly hand towards her,
To which she gave an unsure smile and shook it with both of hers.
I knew others called her mad, they cajoled me into leaving her shade,
But I used to go back to my dear friend, perhaps the best one I have ever made;
Little did I know that I was just a guest there,
Soon we shifted, she howled and I cried more for her than me, I left her forlorn again, I left her there…
But, then it was different, after years I stood there again at her gate,
My mind’s besieged by the forces of broken friendship, the lost mate;
Even the so-called stable minds forget people at flick of seconds, I suspected if she would recall me at all;
I felt like a lunatic in this cosmos to expect an eccentric to remember me after ages have got over their calls.
Past the unlocked gate stood a gloomy garden reminiscing the angelic times,
There she was, sitting on the garden chair as she looked at me; Ah! The same look, dread-ridden;
I went over to her and she grabbed my hand but I chose to stay calm,
I could see her breaking down as she removed a chain from her neck and pushed it onto my palm.
It struck me that it was mine, a clear memory rushed my mind,
Something I thought was lost as a dear departed curio, to be found only if ages rewind;
Tears rolled down her cheeks as she let out my name in the same disrupted speech, poor soul,
But I must admit that I wept, yes, I wept like a child, perhaps poorer soul.
© Megha Bose 2018
Photo Credit: https://goo.gl/images/4EfCea