The Childhood Wish

Posted: August 21, 2012 by Ankur in Writes...
Tags: , , , , , ,

It took me two years to come back to you,
And I haven’t recovered yet.
In phases of awe,
I have slept on your thoughts.
You have been stronger than my sighs,
I have tip toed on
Spoiled birthday disasters,
Ruined cakes splattered on grey walls,
Ruin has set upon my heart,
This ruin is not sadness,
It’s a bygone story someone once told me,
And I have slept on stories ever since.

My mother used to hide a set of fairy tales from me,
She thought they were too expensive and I was too young,
Young children do stupid things,
They cry over wrongly shaped birthday cakes,
They scribble on walls,
Marking their thoughts everywhere,
Much like a drunk man,
A random walk of thoughts,
and destructive.

Ruin thrusts upon more ruin on my tongue,
It is black,
It can turn every thought into reality,
This wall that I look at,
Is made of paper,
You spit on it,
It shall melt,
My eyes shall close.
Someone once told me that might happen.
But this closing is like a curtain,
It just eludes,
Seduces you with death,
and then goes on spoiling more birthdays.

It took me two years,
To be born,
To be given a chance,
To think again.
To think of you,
and not feel pain.
I thought only death could give me that,
But time is like dying.
It goes on healing,
colluding with the child who your mother thought you would be,
for she was young,
and you were the first-born,
and she had seen children cry,
children destroy,
children beat up,
and break the little elements that make up your home,
Maybe, had you been that,
You wouldn’t have gone on spoiling birthdays now.
But your mother was young.

You told me once,
Life doesn’t work the way you want.
I have slept on your thoughts.
Sneezed on your lies,
Lived by your sentences,
I write because I cannot write to you,
Maybe one day,
I shall recover.
Maybe one day,
I shall conform,
I shall become a shadow of your mediocre magnificence,
But then,
I never really turned out to be the kind of child
Who ruins books,
Or scribbles on literature,
Or someone who breaks things that make up your home,
Although all is forgiven to a child,
I think I was born old.

Neelashi Shukla

St Stephen’s College, Delhi

  1. wow … nice writing… 🙂

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