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Pregnant Me and the Terrace

About Shree

Shree is an IT Pro turned author since 2015. Her works include short stories collection 'Secret Expressions: Two Stories', novella 'Silent Invaders', which has entered the quarter finals of Screencraft Cinematic Story (for Hollywood) Contest 2017, and Bengali poetry book 'Onuronon', released in International Kolkata Book Fair 2018. Shree is a contributing author of 'Flock-The Journey', 'Different Strokes' and 'Petals of Love'. She is a regular writer on several writing platforms, portals and magazines. She is currently working on her new novel.

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It was spring, weather was muggy,
The evenings were better and sometimes breezy.
I was newly pregnant, anxious to walk on busy roads.
Hence chose my favourite place, the terrace, which took away my woes.
The rocking chair waited for me and my fetus every evening,
To witness every incident on the rooftops neighbouring.
Big and small, happy and sad, bitter and funny,
Some small things in life, unchanged despite it’s cloudy or sunny.
Little boys flying kites, wrestling their threads with others,
Mothers shout, “It’s dusk, come down, you have waiting tutors.”
They drag themselves, unwillingly, others springing from one roof to another,
Considering themselves to be superheroes or aliens from planet another.
Where roofs were glued together, neighbours chatted turning evenings to nights,
The pretty girl appeared to collect dried clothes from the lines in dim light.
The boy from next roof sneaked with bated breath for her to appear,
Couldn’t explain how his heart skipped a beat at just a glimpse of her.
Some had their entire lives on the terrace ̶ drying pickles, tying hair, reading books.
Rehearsing for drama competitions, or trying to furtively sing in a cosy nook.
An oiled-bodied man who considered him to be ‘Hercules’,
Equipped with tools, pursued his passion of building his body like ‘Adonis’.
Some serious discussions which needed fresh air and open mind,
Held on the terrace accompanied by beverages and snacks of various kinds.
Beyond the terraces was the railway track, local metros passing by,
The sky was busy with all the aircrafts, land and fly.
The full-moon sometimes bright and blue radiating beauty on my womb,
Sometimes flaccid and orange, mocking my growing and milky boob.
The evenings progressively grew dark and still,
The birds flock together and flying to the trees or balcony grills.
The horizon grew dark blue and hazel
With the fumes of the cars, buses and auto rickshaws nozzle.
But I fearlessly sat on the chair of the terrace,
Ruminating the moments with my beloved, his touch and caress.
Whose love made me pregnant, was oblivious of the fact.
From the terrace I called him, but he ignorantly retorted, “Don’t act!”
In the darkness where the sky had no limit, and smeared gradient colours,
Soothing my wavering mind, where I happily shed my tears.
“I miss you my sweetheart”, my heart throbbed every time I uttered.
I miss his tight embrace, his hot kisses, each time my womb fluttered.
But alas he was not around to feel the joy of the new life,
I shared with the terrace under the sky and the moon all the jive.
Do not care whether you believe or not, that you are my angel
And made this change in my body; and I wear hope as a mantle.
The light breeze hits my face and makes me alive
As I stand on the rooftop to answer the call of my soul to survive.
And all that remains so serene, not baffled by negativity,
The windows of the soul are no longer fogged with shame, but see serendipity.

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