Peacock Feather

Dr. Sambhu R.

You kept the peacock feather
I slipped into your hand
on a rainy afternoon in June
sandwiched between the pages
of your immaculately-bound
history textbook—to be precise,
between the 61st page
where a free nation
tumbles out into furious night
and the 62nd where a fanatic
cracks open the aviary
of Gandhi's skull, scattering a flock
of bloodstained white doves.

Those green barbules
proliferating around
bright concentric blazes
of brown, turquoise, and dark blue
like many-coloured sunrises
piled upon each other—
my head spun whenever I saw
all that beauty held
between thin papery hands.

Years passed; we grew apart
and disillusioned with everything.
So many other deafening shots
rang out between the pages
of your history textbook
which continued to fatten
despite the dust and mildew.

But the peacock feather,
now white with fear,
kept travelling backwards,
content to be surrounded
by remembered shocks
as though by retreating,
it could once again be
the peacock it once shed
to be alone and unburdened.

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Dr. Sambhu R., Assistant Professor, Department of English, N.S.S. College, Pandalam, Kerala.