The Peacock Bra

The cold night of Diwali

And the morning aromas of

Chulha, leepa and saani:

Suddenly they all come alive

And drown the din of trial rooms.

Holding the peacock bra in my hands

I am sitting and weeping

In one of the many trial rooms.

Hot stream of tears on my cheeks,

“How do I look?” pouring in my ears

Filtered down from different directions in different voices,

And an entire lifetime in my liquid eyes:

The peacock bra and I in one of the trial rooms.

When he first unhooked, with fingers fumbling  

There was a reward awaiting,

I remember how in a matter of few hours, a lifetime changed.

Years later, I miss the fumble and sob

Clutching a peacock bra in one of the trial rooms.

She smiled, sucked and slept:

The pattern she followed clinging to my breast.

Now, she runs and recites, she consoles and fights.

I see me in her, and snippets of her in myself

She bangs the doors, to find me, of the identical trial rooms.

   

Dancing peacocks, fumbling fingers, moist lactating teats,

Childhood treasures, grown-up pleasures

Pains of childbirth and all else that is worth

Remembering and cherishing

I remembered and cried

Trying the beautiful peacock bra in one of the trial rooms.