A poem I did not want to write…

An untold event

started roaming in the head

She,

a small little girl

till yesterday

took a few steps

towards the river

I call her Shyamalee

This poem is incomplete, if,

she does not take bath in the river

and

climb the steps in wet clothes

I wrote this again and again

I resoled to see her in my favourite colour

and thought,

her hair should be untied

I kept returning

to Kelo, my river

time and again

where

my mother’s soul is at rest

Now, when I attempt

to see her in my ways

I do not find Shyamalee

The little shop-owner

across the river

told me today,

'she committed suicide.

Post-mortem report says

she was pregnant of six month

at the time of death'.

She is buried here

by the municipality workers

somewhere near the Neem tree

adjacent to the hillock...