I remember the teddy bear I sketched
when I was nine years old.
It held a tennis racquet in one hand
a ball in the other.
I felt proud on completing it.
I admired its beauty at length.
The sewing machine in the bedroom
holds evidence for my interest in verbal puzzles.
The scrambled letters of my father's name
scrawled on the wood in innocent, cursive writing
still brings a smile to my face.
My sister and I 'invented' our own language,
complete with a written script.
We sang songs of being cooks with 'theepettis'* in our hats.
We laughed heartily when she sang,
"Run, run, run
for a bun, bun, bun.
You'll have fun, fun, fun
if you run, run, run
for the bun, bun, bun."
I remember winning essay competitions;
donning the roles of Tiruvalluvar, Shylock,
Puck and Tenali Raman in school plays;
playing the flute for the school orchestra;
being a part of the school choir.
Little did I know
I'd be writing this particular poem.
But I dreamt I'll become a poet some day.
I told myself
I'd become a better poet.
Till date,
I've been tirelessly working on it.
* - matchboxes
