One fine morning

She realized

There was something in the world

Called a backbone

But, where?

In the body?

In the mind?

In the dustbin?

Or in the bow-shaped curved back of grandmother?

Father’s tired shoulders?

Mother’s irritating tongue?

Or eyes of the sister who peeps out of window?

She searched every corner of the house

But could not find the backbone

Later on--the story does not remain long--

Her eyes stuck in the place of sister’s eyes

Mother reached the place of grandmother

It always remained difficult to get the backbone

She searched on the roof

In the Elmira

And on the bed

One day

While adjusting the fire of the stove

She found a piece of backbone

Let it lie safe for someone

Who can get it

At least a piece

 ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ 

This was the old story

I heard in the songs of the bird

While she was playing with the dust in the courtyard

I started searching for that

In the brother’s school bag 

In the stick of grandfather

In the mustaches of father

All my trying got fruitless at the end

Sometimes I felt its presence

In the eyebrows of mother

In the basket of the fisherwoman

In the broom of the sweeper

At last I got a jar in the store

Kept behind kitchen vessels

The jar was filled with oil up to the neck

On the top there was fungus

Under the fungus

I got a piece of backbone

Which was kept by someone

Now I sow it in the big meadow,

Where it spreads like a banyan tree

With branches spread in every direction

Backbones should blossom as red flowers

Drop in every house and spread as seeds

Now I am searching

Not for the backbone

But for the meadow

Where I can sow it

Till it is kept in the flowerpot

In my drawing room as a bonsai.

~Rati Saxena~

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