Anjali. Born to an anemic mother.
First breath hours after she was born. Doctors called her a special child then.
Cerebral palsy it had been. What further? The war that her specialness had
forced her to fight against herself.
Entered the clinics clung to her
mother's chest,squinting eyes, teeth showing through her partially open mouth,
little she looked on her father's shoulder,as she perched looking. She was 5,
still special. Fighting, a war uncalled.
Blowing those spit bubbles she
looked wide-eyed. As the white coats passed her. She could have been them. But
her specialness wouldn't bow down.
Placing her on one of the special
mats,her special mats. Her head angled to one side unable to hold it self,her
specialness. Limbs refusing to straighten,they had been fighting too.
She laughed,or tried to through
her partial mouth as they flexed her elbows,and wailed when stretched. With her
mother holding on to a rattle like an army commander for their king.
Day after day,she came and went.
Coats changed. People changed. But what further? Is the question she asks her
commander. When will the war be put to end.
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