The little red box

The warm, sunny porch

The little jute mora

The butter-smattered roti and dal-mut

And a line-up of chhoras

The school gong would ring

The wrought-iron gates would open

The second door with the jaali manoeuvre

The CFL “laser gun” bulb above, like a modern-day totem

The recliner with the extended table

Newspapers everywhere

The garden outside

Each plant brought up with tender, love and care

The jewellery box on the shelf

The bejewelled comb, slipping through silken hair

The tinkling earrings, the clinking bangles

All come to life, even out of thin air

The starched cotton sari, so unbelievably soft to touch

The voice full of warmth, love and laughter bubbling over

Head on your lap—home so close to home

Especially with the stern, disapproving looks when a line was crossed over

Schoolbag in one corner, Pishi on the diwan

Moshai reading the paper, seated on a cane chair

Go straight, turn right, into the bedroom and on the table

Lies my little red cardboard box—always kept there

The photos in it? I have my own version now

The eyes close often, a drop of tear with a small smile appears

Because in my special little red box, my heart

You know you’ll always be there.

Reba Vidyarthi (2 February 1928-10 February 2011)