She

Facing the wrath of the blazing Sun,

She; with her tangled hair, gummy smile, 

deeply lined face,

In a coarse cotton and tattered bag,

Walks through the lofty gates of a mansion,

A fine blend of art, wealth and grandeur.

With agility and honesty ,

She serves the Lady,

Sharing sometimes are joys,

Many a time her sorrows,

Her struggles in the war of 1971,

Leaving behind the riches,

Crossing over from known to unknown,

In search of a stable home.

Everyday, from afar the lady looks,

Immersed She in her own world,

Creating tales on a shiny poplin,

With figures of different hues and views.

Tending, at times, the unwanted creepers,

Running ,every time, to look after her

frail, old mother.

Then, there was a day,

Tears trickling down the face,

Wetted the unfamiliar elephant.

On a piece of grey,

The Lady prodded.

Felt her pain,

Gifted her a pair of specs.

One fine morning,

She tip-toed towards the Lady,

With a colourful embroidery,

Laced with love and gratitude,

But the Lady knew,

The gesture; a reflection of her pride,

self respect and her true identity.