Her Legacy

The old widow left behind a myriad of legacy,

Her red wedding jamdaani, nakshi katha bed sheet she had sewed,

The minuscule teep that had adorned her forehead.

Yellowed pages of diary entries she had written in blue,

A witness to her trials hopes and dreams too.

The balls of yarn, the sweater she had woven, mostly half done,

The photo album, her prized Tagore collection,

The bronze hair pin with an eagle head she wore on her bun,

The silver trinkets, glass bangles, a peacock feather.

The gold rimmed oversized glasses she had got last December.

The purple comb, worn out from use.

She had left behind the letters, slyly tucked away, out of sight,

From the man who had wooed her.

And the recipes were legacy,

Jotted down on scraps and papers,

Cherry pickle, pineapple firni, one Chinese delicacy.

She had left behind her love, her prayers and her wishes,

Her advice, her desires, her dreams were legacy.

But who knew of them?

Her legacy sat in a damp corner of the attic,

Hoping to be found, and treasured,

Her legacy cried in agony, worried and frantic,

Her legacy,

It ached mildly, and sobbed in secrecy,

To hear the shouts and loud voices,

It ached and bled profusely,

While her sons and daughter in laws fought over the land she had left behind.

Land wasn't legacy.

The writer is a student of North South University.