Blowing away the soot and cobwebs,
Amala
Flung the doors and windows open.
She waited
To stop the hurdles in her path, leaping,
Reckless: Copious, unbearable pain
Crushing her baffled soul.
Reminiscing her bold, soft-spoken youth,
Remembering her first encounter, fated—
Rustom.
Assembling the scattered needles,
She found her debris-strewn corner of the room
With its broken walls.
She sewed the story of hope,
Unrequited love,
Blooming prospects,
With her cherished quilted dreams
Crafting gleaming gems.
The needle pierced the past,
Pulling memories within, enriched.
Near the edges, the stitches loosened—
She quickened her pace.
Her fingers wove through the threads,
Scarring the Kantha.
Blood drops formed dots over the flower petals.
She dissolved into desolate memories—
The peaceful sleeps,
Running fearless through the golden fields.
His enthralled eyes admired the red hues on her lips.
Her treasures, like a bird humming a surreal hum;
All lost.
Awake again, after a long penance–
She sewed warmth,
Patches upon patches.
