The tiny little feet did not hop on the steps today,
The tiny little hands did not brush the trees and bushes,
Her little cheery laughter did not sound in the play,
She had not come.

In the house, on a piece of blanket,
Lay her tiny frail body, burning with fever,
Neither could she sit nor could she stand,
She could hardly open her eyes.

“Ma’ she called out with yearning,
“Will you touch my forehead?
My eyes are burning”
“Wait” said the mother as she rushed,
“Your brother had left his food at home”

Her little head continues to ache,
Shivers moved down her back,
She felt it was all she could take
And waited for her mother to be back.

“Ma” said her feeble voice, barely able to rise,
All she yearned was for a little touch,
“I am leaving near you a porridge of water and rice,”
She said “Today the work is very much.”

The sun moved from above the trees to the other side,
The porridge felt like bitter broth,
She spent the time turning from side to side,
Yearning with all her heart for that one little touch.

When the sun was ready to set,
She heard the mother’s footsteps coming swiftly,
She barely managed to sit.

“Ma” she called out again feebly,
“Why don’t you go to sleep?” said the mother.
“I can’t sit with you now”
“I need to get things ready for dinner”

She lay back in the bed and looked through the window,
The moon bathed every object with its shine,
A tiny slight smile her lips did show,
She went out and grabbed her mother’s sari from the clothesline.

And ran in and lay down with it covering her,
The cool fabric soothed her body,
She had finally found THE TOUCH.

.    .    .