The small feet struggled to balance
The bucket of remorselessness,
Leaving red impressions on young palms.
The scream that followed,
When the bucket hit the ground,
Still softer than the roars within his veins.
The sponge, dark as a bruise,
Drank the soapy water,
And was squeezed by hands that couldn’t even engulf it.
The boy began the daily ritual,
Scrubbing the stains
On the wall that determined
Whether there would be work tomorrow.
Today, the red stains found the chance
To abandon their abode.
Gradually, each reddened, soapy droplet
Slid down the wall.
At the tiny feet, they all gathered
Into a small pool.
His eyes fell.
The pool touched the weary feet,
Reminding him of
His mother’s soft silk saree.
The brief hours of joy and comfort
That he once spent with her,
Now, only a lucky memory.
The sun rose.
The wall changed,
As did the trickling droplets,
And the fragments of what he remembered.
Today, the yellow stains of moisture,
On white walls
Reminded him of the wooden horse,
Canary-polished,
A gift from his father,
Which would soon be fed to the fire
And burn in golden flames.
Another sun rose, one of the thousands.
Today his feet swelled in pain,
And his knees trembled, creaking.
The stains were kaleidoscopic.
The daily ritual began,
As it had always.
A group of children passed by,
Tossing paper balls at each other.
He turned slowly to look back,
And this time, something other than the stains
Reminded him of all he had lost.
He sat down for a while,
And for the first time in years,
The stains stayed in their abode,
And the droplets didn’t trickle away.
