Freedom

I trace the patterns
of the agarbathi smoke.
Its fragrance mingles
with that of the
garland around his frame.

I sit there,
while he lies in front of me.
Both still,
covered in white
from head to toe.

Cold and stiff,
even in death he remains.
That frightening frown
between his brows,
frozen now forever.

Women come in,
embrace me and wail.
(As thought they were the bereaved ones!)

My glass bangles are smashed,
the vermilion on my forehead
wiped off,
by each of them,
Again and again and again.

And everytime,
The broken clinking glass pieces,
bring to my ears soothing harmony.
And my white saree,
Dares to unleash its trapped spectral hues.

For after forty long years,
I am alive and free.