Kaanta

My mother bore me,
but parents couldn't afford me.
So they sold me,
to these "good samaritans"
who proffered to take care of me.

Dangling the carrot of city life
over and above the paltry aid,
they beguiled my poor parents,
and bought a dirt-cheap maid.

Now, I must be seven or eight.
In this city bustling with people,
I 'work' as a live-in-maid
and foster this toddler so cute and supple.

Guests come and guests go,
wonder if they even notice me.
When they dine together,
I sit out in the balcony.

Unaware of the ways of the world,
the kid thinks I belong to the family.
In the bliss of mirth or tears of sorrow,
she simply toddles over to me.

Slowly, the garb of innocence will wane,
as societal wisdom the kid will gain.
Then I won't belong to her family,
joy or pain, she won't hug me.

Her mother is her good weather friend;
she keeps the kid when neat and nice.
I get to keep her rest of the time,
whether she is busy or otherwise.

I've this house, but I need a home.
I get food, but I need some love.
I've a life, but I don't live - I exist.
I yearn for that one hug,
the touch smeared in affection,
a lap to put my head on,
a shoulder to cry on,
a face that lights up on my glimpse,
hands that beckon me, not just in my dreams.

In the ever gnawing loneliness,
grew my precocious seriousness.
The burden of this responsibility,
crushed my budding childishness.

I must be seven or eight.
I work as a 'live-in-maid'.
My name they say is Kaanta,
Waiting to be rescued by my Santa.