We always consider blindness to be a disability. Through this poem I have tried to convey that such people have a unique vision to see the world and they cannot be considered handicapped in any manner.
As I walk down the lanes, holding her pale hand in mine,
I behold the magnificent evening sky, shrouding above like spilt red wine.
The rippling pond with drops like infinitesimal beads in a kaleidoscope,
All as insignificant to her blind eyes as a painter’s meticulous brush strokes.
A vision so vivid I have, non-obliterated and sharp,
It explains to me the contrast between the African Kelly and the French Mark.
My rational eyes help me reason out why I must avoid Kelly,
For her graphite colour and grotesque features startle my breaths daily.
But Zoya can be unreasonable at times, for she lacks my rational eyes,
Can’t see why she must not speak to Kelly, she lacks my vision wise.
She argues her Kelly is elegant, for she knows not what elegance means,
Beauty for her is an amicable countenance, invariable between apparent dullness and sheen.
My eyes enable me to admire, the dazzling rubies and royal sapphires,
The reason why I yearn for- exquisite pearls wreathed on silver wires.
I pity Zoya’s ignorance of charms of beads and golden bars,
For, “not harsh stones”, she says, “but I prefer my gifts to be fragrant flowers”.
Juxtaposed are where right and wrong, I am led towards the righteous norms,
I see why a lady’s garments should be modest upwards and downwards long.
Failing miserably here also, she can’t tell between seductive and serene, and
Inquisitively she questions me- “how can a material be labelled as obscene?”
Prized are my genuine eyes, that unveil before me the realities of life,
Adroitly they penetrate beyond the pigeons, to bring forth a concealed strife.
Ignorance is what Zoya manifests, ignorance of thorns beneath the flower,
And all the whiles I detest filthy puddles, I find her savouring the monsoon showers.
Sitting with a book in my lap, I strain my eyes in dull light, and
As the darkness blankets me, I stop perusing for my eyes’ respite.
I turn to see her absorbed, as she reads her book in her own way,
She is merry, unhampered and her own mistress, undisturbed whether it’s night or day.
My cheeks burn with gaucheness, and I stifle with discomfort,
Among the myriad strange faces, their piercing glances awkwardly hurt.
In the crowd of superiors, my conscious head bows down,
Their cackling giggles and merry gestures make my soul sink into the ground.
It’s then that I turn to Zoya, seeking in her some sacred solace,
As she holds my pale hand in hers, pacing forward with utmost grace.
Composed she is in a charming gait with her regular smile on,
Her perpetual mettle strikes me, for she is unaware of the feeling of being looked down upon.