Cleansing

     A task postponed for ever so long, was finally dealt with today. Cleaning the refrigerator... :) Out came the shelves with their 'left-over' occupants. A wet cloth gave a good wipe, cleaning the stains and spots of dried spills. A toothbrush dipped in vinegar took care of the stubborn ones. Food that was intact, went back to the squeaky clean fridge, and the stale went into the waste-bin.
     Satisfied with the outcome, I took a break with the newspaper in hand. After a couple of news articles, my mind nudged me to pull out an old file cover.
     It was a gift from one of my old friends... a mustard yellow cloth cover with golden weavings (Mohua , do you remember this?). Each paper was pulled out. Academic credentials smugly rested at the back...some horscopes of husband and the children...old salary slips and contract papers of mine tumbled out. As I dug deep into the pockets, I found a photograph of my husband posted in some remote corner of Kashmir, passport snaps of my daughter, some film negatives yet-to-be-developed, work related material..and oh! a couple of recipes too.There were prescriptions, and  a couple of letters written in our times of separation. Funny! how they remained stashed together all this while.                                                                                                                            
    Again the waste went into the bin. The snaps and the slips went back into the pockets. Letters were re-read with a smile on the lips. Sometimes old letters are good prescriptions too! 
   And then I found a copy of a poem, that I'd come across long ago in a woman's magazine. It was by Jyothi Singh Viswanath. It touched a chord deep inside then, and which I'ld like to share with you  today.                                                                                                                                                                                                       Am I Here

   I came to your house 
   With a suitcase full of
                                    dreams
Myself, my identity
Wrapped delicately in my
                                     trousseau 
Now,
What stands before you
Is a mirage-
An image that disappears
              on close inspection.

The visage is
That which you have created
and within
The substance that I've lost.
My old self peeps out of
Faded photographs,
Books fragmented,the pages
          turned yellow with age
and
clothes that don't fit.
Trapped
By the should of your love
        and the could of my past.

Somewhere, deep inside
                the battered suitcase
Lie my dreams.
Wings broken,
Wrapped carelessly in an old
                          T-shirt.
Burdened by the waste of a
                                 life
That is vague with
                            confusion.

That was me, I was there...
Am I here?