Gifts (a prose poem)

Initially we would make gifts to each other, we agreed of our dictionaries. As she handed me the book delicately wrapped in a splendid cover, I noticed the beauty of her palm with a delightful pattern of mehandi. I unwrapped the book. Then I opened its pages with curiosity. I held it close to me and tried to listen to the hum of its words. It possessed gentle manners. But soon its voice grew louder. Its temperament gradually changed, and then letters began to run from page to page, transforming themselves into a creature. When I raised my eyes from the book, I found that my room too had changed. The white walls had turned the dullest brown. A bizarre sound echoed through their coldness. The entire house was a different place, its corners abuzz with erratic bickering. I no longer was able to bear such nuisance; I decided to return her gift. We met at the doorstep. She too had an object in her hand. She said it was my gift. This book too had lost its colour and shape. She stretched her hand toward me and I stretched mine toward her. Our gifts jostled against each other and they prevented our hands from meeting.




Poetry by Mukul Dahal
Read 781 times
Written on 2008-02-14 at 21:21

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