Tuesday, May 28, 2013

Mother's Day

I lived with nose-blocks
scabs and sinus attacks
hoping her gentle warmth
will ward off all the evil eye:
she was so distant
a phantom, tangled in
her joys and worries,
other than motherhood pangs

we grew up, my brother
and I, in a paradise
uninterrupted by adult
sadomasochism, the Cain
and Abel, at each other's
throat vying for survival,
my closeted life in
convent schools
and my brother's, in the
male-male world.
we were fanned by the ripple
of her presence,
like stick-insects
we skated on life's
surfaces, bolstered by her calm.

I grew up with the pang
of losing her among the
whirlwind of sarees, wrote epitaphs
and readied myself for its slow
dispersal in the mournful air.
she smiled through her
worries, not letting a
wrinkle scar her face.
and later, when I came back
to her, keeping a ledger
panning ebb and flow
of past present and future,
I was Yayathi resenting her dyed hair
and perpetual youth,
I sulked and relented and loved.

A teenager in rebellion, at thirties,
I gaped into me, refusing to see the
mother and wife, but the woman
searching for her self,
like Narcissus she gazed back to me
tangled with life,
reminding that I am
the mother and wife
who has to live the
woman in me first!

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