In a Mood of Nostalgia
_______________________________
THE LAST PIECE
==============
One morbid afternoon
Her husband slept his last
Not to wake up again.
The cry calmed
After thirteen days of flurry
Of feast and fast, hymns and alms.
Thus she became a widow
And lost her right to silk and gold
In the sixty-third year of her life.
The gold she rescued
Time and again from usurers’ grips
Wouldn’t adorn her wrists any more.
Nor the wedding sari
She long preserved in naphthalene
Would ever swathe her body.
Armed with their right of inheritance
The officious daughters-in-law
Accosted the sobbing soul.
And they grabbed the gold,
All by themselves, taking her nod for granted
To the last retrievable piece.
Like an accident victim immobile
She witnessed the marauders looting,
Their qualm killed and compunction crippled.
At the end of the agonising spell
Her wedding sari was only left
Out-of-fashion and undistinguished.
The dilapidated silk
Redolent of unsung glory
Would stay alive till her final journey.
Husband lost to heaven
And sons to daughters-in-law,
She would live a life of destitute now.
Approaching fast the chilly December
A time to scrabble about the wardrobe
For a bundle of benevolent warmth.
She would grab the sari
Perforce, in those freezing nights
To wrap her body, and not to wear it.
-----------------
Visakhapatnam
01=06=1999
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By
A. N. Nanda
Muzaffarpur
17-03-2009
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It's quite a feeling to revisit one's old creation. It's like meeting an old friend that catapults the mood to the realm of nostalgia. The force of longing overpowers the imagination. 'Aha! If only I got back my old muse!' It's like old love, always refreshing, always inspiring. And this is how I can describe my mood as I decide to post my old poem "The Last Piece". It's from my book of poem collections "In Harness" ISBN 81-8157-183-5 published in 2004.
_______________________________THE LAST PIECE
==============
One morbid afternoon
Her husband slept his last
Not to wake up again.
The cry calmed
After thirteen days of flurry
Of feast and fast, hymns and alms.
Thus she became a widow
And lost her right to silk and gold
In the sixty-third year of her life.
The gold she rescued
Time and again from usurers’ grips
Wouldn’t adorn her wrists any more.
Nor the wedding sari
She long preserved in naphthalene
Would ever swathe her body.
Armed with their right of inheritance
The officious daughters-in-law
Accosted the sobbing soul.
And they grabbed the gold,
All by themselves, taking her nod for granted
To the last retrievable piece.
Like an accident victim immobile
She witnessed the marauders looting,
Their qualm killed and compunction crippled.
At the end of the agonising spell
Her wedding sari was only left
Out-of-fashion and undistinguished.
The dilapidated silk
Redolent of unsung glory
Would stay alive till her final journey.
Husband lost to heaven
And sons to daughters-in-law,
She would live a life of destitute now.
Approaching fast the chilly December
A time to scrabble about the wardrobe
For a bundle of benevolent warmth.
She would grab the sari
Perforce, in those freezing nights
To wrap her body, and not to wear it.
-----------------
Visakhapatnam
01=06=1999
-------------------------------------------------------------------
By
A. N. Nanda
Muzaffarpur
17-03-2009
-------------------------------------------------------------------