Toy
S.
K. Prathap
The fiddle my children play with
Was an heirloom.
We drew the juice of self
From its umbilical chord.
For long it lay in the loft
Among darkness, damp, and gods
Shifted from the prayer room
Converted to a bed room
For the nuptials of my parents.
The fiddle my children play with
Belonged to a forefather
Killed by a British soldier.
He died hugging the fiddle,
while His music thickened with blood,
So goes the legend.
The fiddle was a demigod, who
Proudly weighed our prayers
And held sway as colonizer of our hearts
For a hundred years
Until we outgrew space.
The fiddle my children play with
Is a mute god.
Is a toy.