Cunningly,
colours will sneak past the corner of your eye
and stun it into stillness. Arch into hopeful rainbows
gleam like a palette of gems
scattered by a scheming jeweller.
Cunningly, they will wipe themselves out
like a whimsical kaleidoscope
in a child’s hands.
Who broke
so many glass bangles? And
poured the shards into a cylinder to
entertain a child?
I wondered,
who planned the glittering patterns
that shifted before my spellbound eyes.
Were they gathered from frenzied wrists shedding colours?
Because a woman’s life must lose colour
without a man; no matter
how many indifferent rainbows stain the sky.
Dressing for Papa’s funeral
in a white sari, my Christian mother asks
what shall I do with these bangles?
four blue glass bangles
that absent mindedly adorned her wrists.
Break them, says her matter-of-fact friend.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem