Puppets held by strings

At the time of my childhood
Amidst the street plays and fairs
I would clap my hands and shout
At the puppets dancing
To amuse the crowd.
But as I grew older
I no longer felt like clapping
At the sight to puppets dancing.
I wanted to cut all those strings,
That chained them against free will
And arm wrestle with those hands
That were entangled in those strings.
The coins that were tossed
At the puppets were like holes
That were visible on the girl's skirt
whose hands were
entangled in the strings.
And I didn't know how
to hate that show.
There were plastic smiles on those
puppets which I knew were
Hurting them for long.
I took a brush and painted tears
On the cheeks that were bleak.
Their smile resembled the photographs
That are on the walls of my room.
There are crevices on those frames
Just like the cheeks of that puppet.
As I grew older
I got fewer photographs clicked
And switched to  windchimes
Made of strings.

Chanchal Bagla