The Mismatched Flowers in Her Gajra...

The Mismatched Flowers in Her Gajra.

She is sad—

just a few flowers sit mismatched

in the quiet curve of her gajra.

But then she realises—

she did not bring these flowers

from her mother’s womb.

And the ones that once matched perfectly

begin to fall, one by one,

like a careless clearance sale

of a mischievous autumn.

It is human nature—

to weave connections in the outer world,

yet not a single thread is tied

within the womb.

What is lost, is lost—

why return to it

with the same tears, again and again?

Everything we gather in life

is borrowed from the outer world,

never to be confused

with the silent truth within.

I have seen people

grieving over lost love,

lost jobs,

lost fragments of what they called “theirs”—

but if nothing was carried from the womb,

why mourn its absence now?

She gathers what remains—

only to understand:

all the flowers she once wove into her gajra

were collected from the outer world…

and now, they are gone.

The realization of loss

does not ache anymore.