Back To Square Poem by neha sharma

Back to square


Huh! Finally it comes again,
But with no special gain.
Seated comfortably on my ottoman,
I count the number of birth anniversaries the country has had,
I recount the joie de vivre on my father’s pallored face,
Over the prospect of another holiday,
Over the prospect of just another day.
The day has approached again,
To find its lost significance,
To live its importance.
It scrounges everywhere,
But unfortunately finds it nowhere,
The fervor seen during the cricket matches,
Painted faces, painted t-shirts,
The fervor seen during demonstrations,
Broken down buses, burnt cafeterias.
Why is that enthusiasm absent today?
Where is it looming like a mirage?
Either burn it today,
So that it does not disturb you ever,
Or live it today,
So that it enlightens you every year.
A little girl and her likes,
In a tattered shirt, askew skirt, ruffled hair,
Stands at the traffic signal,
Walks past the sky scrapers,
Holding a bunch of flags,
Screaming all the while,
To earn a penny or two.
She knocks at the passing Chevrolets,
But rather receives a frowning brow,
She urges them with her pleading eyes,
But rather sees a reason for her insistence.
Hardly one or two stop by,
To buy the flags,
For their children have to tug them up,
In their school functions.
Getting a paltry favour,
She is happy in her own way.
Probably the day finds its adobe with the girl,
Probably the shine on her face gives it an eternal joy,
Probably the liveliness of her eyes gives it an ultimate delectation,
Probably the brightness of her own whole self provides it with the final redemption,

And probably for this girl, it comes back again and again.
And then after the function,
The flag rolls and tumbles,
In midst of our hectic feet,
Bustling together to reach our respective destinations.
Nobody cares or may be dares to bend our brows,
To look at our love for our country which,
Inhabits all the destinations,
To shudder back at the travesty of our asset,
Scurrying amongst our feet.
The day ends, the sale ends,
The flags go back with her,
To be dumped back in some corner of her dingy cell,
To be taken out the next year.
The confetti of colors in the sky,
Do provide it with a quantum of solace.
Boys and girls thronging at the shops,
To buy a bundle of kites,
Fill it with ecstasy.
Somewhere, in somebody, a part of it is breathing,
A part of it is providing many with atleast two meals a day.
Isn’t it? Did you know this?
The day is knocking at my doors again,
But with no special gain.

Created by-:
Neha Sharma