Still There


The clay from Ganges, shaped like a doll,

Cooked in fire long, as I sat and watched,

Turned red from brown, and paper dress on,

It had no pretty face, no fancy hair or clips,

Two hands stretched immovable, two legs,

Just a human figure it was all! Yet I played,

Long and long, for hours and more,

She made it for me with love, my aunt,

Sitting on the mud and dung plastered porch,

Near the pond, where few ducks quacked,

Time and again, swimming and floating,

On the green waters, covered with moss,

It was a different world, a different place then,

Those hands wrinkled, eyes blurred now,

Those mud made dolls are lost somewhere,

No more to hear the quacks anymore,

In the city, yet I find myself wandering,

Alone on wheels of life, sitting beside my soul,

In the times left behind, and the places,

Lived once, it seems I have come afar,

Yet some part of me remains still there,

And silently watches that little girl and her,

Aunt talking, playing and laughing,

While making those clay dolls with hand,

Their hands all covered in clay, and now I,

Don’t like to play, it irks to get hands dirty,

The doll has been cooked in fire, or was it me,

A part of me longs to go there, so hollow here,

And they are still there, in that small mud house,

Alas! But not me,

Alas! But not me…


*Monalisa Joshi*


2 thoughts on “Still There

  1. What a beautiful and sweet memory Monalisa! I can just picture you there, sitting at the Ganges with your Aunt, making the Doll and how you joyfully played with it. Very well written!!
    Love and Blessings to you dear one!

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