A book of poems

Maithri held her poetry book at arms length and squinted at it. Her handwriting had changed quite a bit in twenty years, but her 'y's and 'g's and 'f's were still the same scrawls peculiar to her. She flipped it to the first page and began reading. The first poem was Frost.

'Two roads diverged in a yellow wood and sorry I could not travel both, and be one traveler, I stood' ... there a huge inkblot disfigured the next verse. She could decipher it if she peered closely, but with the beginnings of a headache caused by Peesh, her German Shepherd, she felt it unwise to make the attempt. Instead she opened a page where her handwriting was much neater and she'd actually written within the margins.

The poem was Daffodils, which she had decided to memorize for her English class poetry recitation day. It was a beautiful poem, but when the day came, she had recited 'Leisure' instead. That poem was there too in the next page; She turned the sheet and read,

'What is this life if, full of care, we have no time to stand and stare?' It went on for a few verses, but she didn't read it; she looked at her illustrations instead. After transcribing every poem, she'd drawn a little picture at the end related to the poem.

The yellow flowers could pass for daffodils, especially since the name of the poem said it all. The fortress of the lady of Shalott was a little wobbly due to lack of space, but the leaves flying through the air before the West Wind were rather well done. She'd coloured them every hue possible, like it said in the poem, and they did look pestilence-stricken.

She thought back to when she had started keeping this book. Her sixth standard English teacher had suggested that they all have a little book where they pasted any interesting articles on English they found; or those which contained errors of grammar, spelling or punctuation, and they could discuss it in class. This proposal had not appealed to her classmates, involving as it did superfluous work with no scoring potential, and she'd been the only one, she thought, who'd taken to the idea. Instead of pasting articles, however, she copied out poems. This was in imitation of the self-same English teacher who always carried her worn-out poetry book in her slim handbag: Maithri had seen it often.

When asked why she simply didn't buy a book of poems, the teacher had replied, "Because I like having my own copy of poems with me. Also, since I have eclectic tastes in poetry, I don't want to buy different volumes simply for one poem. I prefer whipping out my book and adding that poem into my book which I can then read whenever I want to." Maithri had thought that was a great idea.

Settling herself more comfortably on her pillows, Maithri flicked through the rest of the book, which she hadn't touched in so long. After the first frenzy, she'd lost interest and had written only occasionally, when she encountered a really great poem. When she was fifteen Wordsworth had been a favourite. She'd painstakingly transferred even his longer poems. Most poems were of the Victorian poets, though there were a few modern ones here and there. Of the eastern poets, Vikram Seth was the sole Indian, and there were a few English translations of Japanese haikus. The ninety-two page notebook was filled up.

"That's a shame actually," Maithri said to herself as she got up, taking care not to trip over the two-feet long cane that Peesh had left lying around. She could put it away, but Peesh went mad if it wasn't there for him to roll around when he woke up, so she'd learned not to touch it, unless she wanted to face some unpleasant music. "Victorian poets are all great in their own way, but there are many Indian ones as well who have written very well. I'd like to find out more about them."

She helped herself to some pumpkin cookies and opened her laptop, eager to begin right away. However, before she could, great rumbling, heaving and panting sounds from upstairs told her that her 'best friend' had woken up, and would presently trudge down for his customary diet of vitamin-enriched fish-flavoured doggy food. And then, he'd worry her till she took him for a walk. She shut her computer with a snap. "Just like they say in the movies," she addressed it, "I'll be back."

After being dragged through the winding roads by her maniacal dog, who salivated every time he saw a squirrel - which was plenty, since it happened to be squirrel season - she returned home with her slippers water-logged, or rather saliva-logged. "Ugh," she said, removing them gingerly, "you ought to be ashamed of yourself."

But Peesh had already bounded away happily to play with his cane, and after shaking her head in disgust, Maithri went up to have a bath. Her poetry book had slipped between the sofa and the wall. When she came out after a long, luxurious bath, she'd forgotten all about it and she sat at her laptop to compose a new story. After all, the book had served its purpose. It was what had led Maithri to decide that what she wanted to do was become a writer, and it was satisfying work. It's pretty good, isn't it, when a humble book of poetry can make a whole career?