What category of a writer was I?
An amateur, professional, or the one
That wrote when the emotions soared high?
This was the question raised by a reader wide-eyed,
When she read about “My unforgettable cycle ride”.
A working woman and a mother of two,
Doesn’t find time sometimes, even for loo!
From early morn to late at night,
Chores to attend, alas, no respite!
The other day saw the bright moon in the sky,
Could enjoy the view only for a few moments, sigh…
I wanted to write about the dancing daffodils,
But had to keep a note of the cooker whistles.
I wanted to write about Chhattisgarh’s tribal,
But I had to clear many a file on my office table.
I wanted to write about things entertaining,
But had to give in, to my mate’s embracing.
Didn’t know, all the mundane things in life,
Could still kill, without a gun or a knife.
The writer in me was brutally and mercilessly murdered,
Not once, but a thousand times, and nobody even murmured.
But I don’t blame anyone and take it on myself,
For being overtly selfless and ignoring my true self.
What an ironical situation for this dame,
The murderer and the murdered are one and the same!
The murderer and the murdered are one and the same…