Among street vendors and petty salesmen,
Amidst a throng of rickshaws and a Mercedes Benz,
In the beautifully foul streets of Bangalore,
Lived a young lass – this is her lore.
Walking home from school, she trudged on the littered alley,
With rushed footsteps, no dilly-dally.
Her head held down, eyes profound,
Her mind was a battleground.
Silence prevailed, save for the sound of jingling keys,
As she unbolted the door to an empty home.
Sat herself down, showing her scraped knees,
Seized a book by Jerome K. Jerome.
Her racing thoughts ceased:
In the yellowed parchment, she found peace.
Forthwith, the clock chimed and the book was shut,
Pages and pages of equations, all clear-cut
With clarity boggled her inventive mind.
The young poet became blind.
Blind to literature, blind to art,
Blind to everything that pleased her heart.
Her inner peace was rudely disrupted,
Her good sense and sanity erupted.
Words forgotten, terms were learnt,
Definitions and structures burnt
Her very insides, yet, she was silenced.
Silenced by her family, silenced by society,
Silenced by her own mind.
Days, weeks, months, years passed
And not a happy moment went by.
Now, she sits an old woman by the same old home,
In the same old street, in the same old city.
She says, in a weary, tired voice,
“My name is Kalpana and I did not dream.”