Dislocation

An evocative poem by Poonam, where physical pain transcends into the agonising pain of a refugee, exclusively for Different Truths.

During childhood,
On one of the vacations
To my paternal village
My wrist bone got dislocated.
 
My grandfather took me
To a local wrestler
Who was a popular bone-setter
 
The wrestler caressed my wrist
Asked me to close my eyes
Then pulled my hand
With a sudden powerful jerk
And announced
My alignment was done.
 
I screamed, yelled, and cried
His assistant helped me
Gulp down a pain killer tablet
On my wrist, a freshly
ground paste was applied...
And covered with a leaf
After few applications
I got complete relief
 
It was an internal displacement
I was doing fine...
Yet years later
During monsoons and winters
The pain in my wrist would arise
 
The pain often left me wondering
The plight of war-torn refugees.
Who have been dislocated from their roots,
Physically, psychologically, emotionally.
 
Would life ever be normal for them?
Even if they are well placed.
Won’t the monsoon downpour
Bring back the memories?
 
Won’t the harsh winters,
Remind them the warmth of lost relationships
Won’t the reminiscence of times bygone
Enhance the pain of leaving their cherished moments behind...

Visual by Different Truths