A DEARTH

Born in the corner of baked hut, inhaling the redolence of rot. Breastfed on grief of roofless homes. The blanched chamois saree, draped my vitiligo struck limbs. Growls of unfed hunger echoed through the space. The lunar rays peeked through the window, caressing my forehead and the swish-swish murmurs of periwinkle, windstrewn gulmohar; cradled me to sleep. For, marooned was I, from the gentle stroke of motherly affection.

The loud thunderclap of the cacophony echoed from the muzzle of bus depot, tadbits of abuses and cuss words spurted out by the mujurs, honking of the traffic amalgamated with the Bhojpuri songs, laughter, cries of the peddlers, ferrying barrows of fruits and nuts; jostled me from the sleep.

The numbness thaws for a moment. The lump in my throat, begins to hurt. The lump increasing in radius, with every passing moment.  

"Grief is a leech , voraciously quaffing tears, to survive!!

Grief is the brobdingnagian rumble stacked against which thrives the destitute. Sadness is a luxury for us", cowering on the sun-baked floor, I muttered.

I lie, there enveloped with pangs of grief ; sneering at me, through the tattered cloth. I lie, there in an eerily quiet space. Struggling with a lump of grief , strangulating my breath.