The museum was deserted at mid-noon
The summer sun more than his taste for history
Drove him in for a stroll among the dead faces and objects.

His eyes caught the two warnings
Photography prohibited and
Don’t touch objects

He furtively cell-clicked Dupleix’s Bed
Solid 18th century teakwood
Carrying stains of his passions on white linen
Imprinted with the motions of his emotions

There he saw the ruler on the bedstead
With tender touch of fingers on his head
One svelte hand on the dark wooden stand

His hand involuntarily touched the wood

A small chunk fell into his hand
And without a second thought
In a forbidden impulse
He shoved it inside his pocket

He came out from the musty smell into the sun

A chip of Dupleix in his pocket
His passion’s outlet
Escapes from the ravages of war
To find solace
From the tender hands around him
Bought by force of wealth
Far far away from home.

Away from colonial past he breathed deep

The little wooden chip would be a memorable keep!