Alternative Voice

She is busy colouring her thoughts The fingers restlessly Move across the drawings On the card board paper. “What is the colour of the sun?” she fumbles– Yellow, orange, or crimson red– Who knows it? The colour of the sun? She takes a colouring pencil, and before she fills in The colour, she tries to sharpen the tip of the pencil; The tip breaks again and again... And it only sharpens her nerves. Irritated, confused, She raises her head, and slowly, turns it a little right, And gives a puzzled look at me, Perhaps, at my non-cooperation. Her eyes Are enough to tell what she feels About me; But I have never coloured A sun, you know! I have never felt it closely To know its colours. At times, I have hated the irresistible heat, or Its absence too. But colours? Does the sun have a colour at all? With my little daughter, the sun smiles, and how Do I tell what colour is the smile? It’s raining heavily outside, and inside My conscien

In her youthful fancy she plucked the sun from the sky. Filled in with immense passion for this young morning sun, she held it tight to her bosom and felt its warmth skin to skin. How long one can surrender? The sun had its promise to the sky To come back soon! But unwilling to share the sun with anyone else, she wrapped the sun carefully with her soft red shawl and quietly hid it in a corner of her own memory-shelf. And now, the sun no more shines in the sky to show the world how happy she is! (From Of Nepalese Clay Issue   19)