Just one copy left. I’d soon picked, ‘My village’,
A renowned book of charming verses for the young;
Much loved for illustrations and lucid language,
And Rhythm such – every line could be easily sung…

Though I should be the owner of, ‘My village’,
When Lucy, my elder, just established her right;
Dad gave her the book and as though great privilege,
Gave me chocolates. I meekly forgot our fight…

When father went to towns, cities on his business,
My mother, our little home, lovingly managed;
Lucy established her rights, but, now with calmness,
Yet, often to tease me, new rhymes she recited.

It’s then when a little tall and fat we’d now grown,
And had more thoughts to think than mere, ‘My Village’;
The innocence of our childhood like dew-drops gone,
Life got monotonous like a normal voyage…
—-
That day Lucy recited rhymes in a full chain,
Like, longing to tell us all her philosophy;
And collapsed. They had found, ‘hemorrhage in her brain’.
Lucy, soon, undertook her Eternal Journey.
—-
Rituals, done; pains, undone; seated on our yard,
Father brought out, Lucy’s Sachet – just small baggage;
With her tiny vanities – paint, brush, and note-pad…
Wrapped well in a satin cloth was, ‘My village’.

On its first recto page, her own scribbling written:
‘Brother! Not of malice! I did it for fun! Love you!’
I did hide, yet my tears flew like a dam broken,
Lucy, ‘My village’, each moment, I’m missing you…