Grown older by an year
and a half,  the hair 
mostly grey, I look 
at the mirror, which reflects
 a gaunt face.

I talk to the image 
 gesticulate, scold,
appreciate, accept 
deny.   as if I am 
confronting   another 

Recalling my mother’s words.
when I was five years old,
 I talked danced sang and played
 before the mirror, addressing 
the reflection as Beena,  another
 toddler of the same age

 That sensitivity  has surfaced 
unknowingly, cause being the long 
confinement at home accompanied 
by fear. Apprehensions  drive me mad,
reports terrify, disaster stares.

I look at the mirror, my only solace,
 The one,  envisage, echoes 
a similar sensibility,   Withdrawing 
from the virtual, I gaze at the sky
where clouds gather.  a prelude to rains,