CHRONICLES OF A FAILED DAUGHTER

My mother tells

she always wanted 

a daughter as her first born

to braid the hair 

to hold her hands in

the muddy monsoon roads

to laugh with ease

and to talk about how her day went.

She smiles when she 

talks about the first time she saw my little feet.

She tells how she dreamt

of  my teenage self standing beside her 

in a Saree shop criticizing her choice of color with silent looks,

Of discussing about the marble shaped mole 

on my hand and

to have a gossip section 

on weary Sunday afternoons.

I ,

gulping down the cold tea,

nervously tries to remember the last time

we talked to each other.

My Misty brain cells fails 

to recall the last joke

we shared.

My impatient sighs silenced

my black pupil confused to focus...

I know am far away from 

what she wanted to be

_ not the little princess

of her untold fairy tales.

My mother tells 

she always wanted a daughter as her first born,

but not a one

like

me.

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