Holding On

By Sloka Kadiyala

When a boy was gifted a ball,

He looked after it with care.

Always used the same one, not once another,

gave it the attention beyond compare.

Soon it had a tiny hole,

His perfect ball had air going out of it!

The boy didn't want to believe it,

So he picked up his pump,

And filled it with air again.

But the hole was still there,

There when he kicked it,

There when he threw it,

There when he had a goal.

Everyone else noticed,

And asked the boy to buy a new one,

But the boy, sentimental and stubborn,

said “ there can be nothing wrong with my ball,

sure it has its imperfections but I can fix it!

So blinded by his love for it that he didn't notice the hole getting bigger and bigger,

until he did,

as it burst, while he was pumping it again.

Aren’t we humans a bit like this, too?

How often do we cling to what harms us,

Holding tight to the comfort of the familiar,

Until it leaves a mark so deep, we can’t ignore it?

By Sloka Kadiyala