She Walks On Mirages...

By Dr Smita Sriwastav

She is caught in the quagmire of self concocted ambiguities and ubiquities, her identity swamped by forced anonymity of relations and duties, that leave little space for sustenance of anorexic self,

Her existence is a cocktail of half-truths and flights of fancy that are bleached of reality by passing decades

She swears by embellished anecdotes, born of an imagination starved of novelty by a routine of monotonous sitcoms and kitchen chores,

She daydreams of exotic holidays read of with gluttonous intrigue only to be placated by tryst to local bazaar,

Her curiosities and anticipations have long been buried in a complacence worn with poker faced nonchalance,

She smiles at her private jokes, trying to gather bliss in a drab, dishwater life showing time that despite insipidity life is still beautiful, like softness inherent of faded denims,

She is the silence making words all the more magical, the shadow enhancing aura of light, her coarse touch smoothens the rough edges of other’s realties,

She nurtures as the soil left arid by thirsty, nuzzling roots, she is the unseen wind ferrying wings of her kin across horizons, the tempest of her feelings painting rainbows on their emptiness,

Malleable as clay, generous as the river’s blessings, she sings hybrid songs to fill her days, her preoccupations endeavoring to make kaleidoscopes from fragments of shattered dreams of those she exists for…

By Dr Smita Sriwastav