“Twinkle, twinkle, little star, How I wonder what you are!”
Sitting on a large, open swing in their varenda, Kaveri was putting her little girl to sleep.
“Bhabhi, I’ll look after Kinjal. Could you please serve me lunch, I’m running late.”
Kaveri became hesitant. How will her thirteen years old brother-in-law, Mohan handle a six-month-old Kinjal?
“I’m yet to make chapattis. Let your brother come, then I’ll go into the kitchen.”
“Bhabhi, it’s time for my class. Please.”
Reluctantly Kaveri gave Kinjal in Mohan’s hands and said gently,
“Please be careful.”
Ten minutes later when she came out of the kitchen, her scream died in her chest and the plate of food fell from her hands. Mohan was laughing and chit-chatting on the phone, his back turned towards the empty swing.
“Twinkle, twinkle, little star, How I wonder what you are!”
Today, five years later, Kaveri’s eyes are still cemented on the hooks, which don’t hold the swing anymore. Ceaselessly, she continues to sing the poem with tears streaming down her face.
Shamim Merchant
