One year, twenty seven days;
I haven’t heard my mother speak.
Not that she hasn’t tried.
Guttural sounds, incomprehensible,
Tearing at my heart and soul,
Making me bleed silently.
What would I not give,
To be able to hear her soothing voice.
Lullabies and old Hindi film songs.
Tolstoy’s stories, Shakespeare’s plays, Tagore’s poetry.
One year, twenty seven days, to be precise;
Since she wrote anything.
Cheated by her hand that refuses to let her
Pen down her thoughts,
And fill up pages of innumerable diaries
that lay stacked in the corner of her old cupboard.
What goes on in her mind now is a mystery;
We cannot decipher…none of us,
The children she had borne.
Perhaps only he could have brought her back from the brim
The grim edge of life,
But he is no more.
And all we can do is pray,
Watch, wait and pray.