My Trunk Box
In my house there lies a trunk box
occupying three feet by two feet space in a corner
faded, rusted and wounded
that was gifted to me while I was eighteen
by my father who passed away eight winters ago.
It’s now antique but very much Indian with grey
jammed with memories –
decades of letters, envelopes stuck with all different kinds of stamps,
album of my yoga postures, old photos, blurry photos,
three full manuscripts and an incomplete manuscript
typed on Facit typewriter that was gifted to me by my maternal uncle
to flourish with my writings that fetched me no returns so far,
notes scribbled on pieces of paper, now brittle
two mementoes.
When I open it, the hinges squeak like a treasure chest.
I carried it whenever I moved my house.
Now it lies in the silent hiss of space covered
occupying three feet by two feet space in a corner
faded, rusted and wounded
that was gifted to me while I was eighteen
by my father who passed away eight winters ago.
It’s now antique but very much Indian with grey
jammed with memories –
decades of letters, envelopes stuck with all different kinds of stamps,
album of my yoga postures, old photos, blurry photos,
three full manuscripts and an incomplete manuscript
typed on Facit typewriter that was gifted to me by my maternal uncle
to flourish with my writings that fetched me no returns so far,
notes scribbled on pieces of paper, now brittle
two mementoes.
When I open it, the hinges squeak like a treasure chest.
I carried it whenever I moved my house.
Now it lies in the silent hiss of space covered
-with a white loin cloth like a coffin.
It is alive with me as I am alive.
The box is so dear to my heart
that I hardly said ‘yes’ to scrap dealer.
Any one doubted its existence
could walk into my house and see
the centre stage of my life
It is alive with me as I am alive.
The box is so dear to my heart
that I hardly said ‘yes’ to scrap dealer.
Any one doubted its existence
could walk into my house and see
the centre stage of my life
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