Her Age Travelled To Me | Mahitha Kasireddi

Every evening after school,
I’d spot her while entering the colony,
Her pale face pressed against the window grills,
Her eyes never blinked,
There was nothing to read in her face.

I got to see her closely on a Sunday,
She was being escorted to the church,
Dressed at her best,
There was a clear attempt,
To paint a green story,
For the world to see.

I heard people talking of her,
Her mysterious birth,
Her homecoming,
Her house arrest,
Her loudest cries,
Echoing till the end of the street.

I thought she was quite young,
I was naive in judging her body.
Like everything else,
Her age travelled to me,
She was 33,
33 years of enslavement,
How atrocious!

That was the time;
I was introduced,
To all things unanswerable.
The impossibility of her release.
My critical reasoning started with her,
I was 12,
I was denied explanation.

I recently learnt she is free,
Her abuser died of cancer.
It took her death,
To set her free.
To me it is still no justice;
It was much delayed after all.

Indian Review | Literature and Poetry from India | Author | Mahitha Kasireddi writes for Indian Review | Visit and Share