Guernica

I lay in my bed, staring at the half closed door,

My room was dark, with splashes of light on the bleak walls,

“Guernica”, a voice said.

“Hello”, I said.

“Have you not heard of Guernica”?

“Yes. Read about it in school”.

“Why? What about Guernica”?

“Nothing”.

“Then why wake me up with Guernica”?

“Who said, I did”?

“Then why are you talking”?

“Stop talking and let me go to sleep”!

“You do that every night”!

“Yes, I have work in the morning”!

“So why bother about Guernica, then? Let it be”.

“I never said otherwise!

Picasso brilliance before my birth does not interest me!”

“Then why do you shed crocodile tears?

When you read the morning newspaper?”

“I shed tears, real ones, when I feel pain. Is that so bad”?

“Oh, no! It’s strange, you cry and feel empty.

Pregnant now, drained next”.

“Yes, I need to cry, I said.

How else will I sleep?

How else will I go to my work tomorrow?

How else will I fill that emptiness and move on”?

“Guernica, then”.

“Guernica, I said”.

And found my eyes looking at my half closed door.

And found my door ajar.

My kitchen was buzzing with the usual sounds.

Thankfully there was no Guernica lurking in the darkness.

It was all bright, in right shape, assuring and familiar.

Till I saw the bundled pages, casually tossed by my maid on my wooden, reading table.

Waiting to be picked up…

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