Sonal Singh On Sonal's Table
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Creak! Creak! Creak!
Protest the rickety wooden steps
Every time he makes his way to my door.
I cower, enveloped in a raw fear.
I bite into my clammy knuckles,
And draw my knees up to my chest,
As I hear his heavy tread on the steps.
I scuttle to a corner of my bed
But…
Its threadbare mattress offers little comfort!
My eyes peer at the sliver of pale light
That seeps in from under the closed door.
I hope, against hope that he shall pass by,
That, his step shall not stop at my doorstep
Tonight.
But, alas!
His shadow comes to rest there.
I hear the scrape of a foot against the door,
And then the door swings open.
I whimper…
I know what awaits me.
My door does not open for freedom.
My door does not open for opportunity.
No! It opens to snuff out my innocence
Time after time…every time.
Night after night he lurches in
In his alcohol induced stupor
Leering…
He comes now too, grinning malevolently.
The door bangs shut!
And like every night the sound echoes
In the deathly stillness, like an ominous peal.
I shiver.
From a barred window, high up near the ceiling,
A trickle of moonlight filters in, cloaking the room.
It comes to rest on the closed door.
It too cannot pass, held captive as it is like me.
I hate the closed door.
But more than that…
I hate my life behind the closed door.
Author’s note – Doors open opportunities. They are a means for freedom…or are they? But what if the doors in your life did not open? What if they were shut, leaving you defenceless? What if there were no opportunities?
Sadly, there are many young innocent girls who lose their childhood to such closed doors. In their lives the door does not stand for freedom or hope. Rather, it stands for confinement and defilement.
This poem is dedicated to such survivors.
