Participate in the 3rd Season of STORYMIRROR SCHOOLS WRITING COMPETITION - the BIGGEST Writing Competition in India for School Students & Teachers and win a 2N/3D holiday trip from Club Mahindra
Participate in the 3rd Season of STORYMIRROR SCHOOLS WRITING COMPETITION - the BIGGEST Writing Competition in India for School Students & Teachers and win a 2N/3D holiday trip from Club Mahindra

Mother: A Rebel

Mother: A Rebel

2 mins 716 2 mins 716

If it rains in Jerusalem, you'll 

Want to know because the holy

Met Abrahamic religion met on

The land. Mother was cloaked in a

Creamy white shawl, coal-black

Suit, golden pendant

And tiny flowered earrings.

She kissed a boy under the sunlight, on the

Garden mud, left to the rosemary.


She was fourteen and wanted gallant falls 

To fear her reign.

The Country fed young girls

A reminder they remembered through their

Fourteens: The Marriage at youth and 

A family by sixteen.

Mother used to lock

Her room behind grandpa,

Cry beside the mahogany bed

But nobody heard her.

Nobody wanted to hear her. 


Countries were deaf to its crowd. 

Mother wanted to become a rebel

The country would kneel down for.

She wanted to exercise sovereignty, 

Authority and a regnal name followed not by 

A regnal number.

She wanted to be the one.

Mother wanted to become a sultan.

She chastised her peachy frock layered with

Cute pink floral designs.

Mother learnt to ride a bicycle but hated when 

The shine turned into a valid rust. 

Grandpa tells me that she was married

At twenty-six and in the city,

Mother wasn't among women

Who were married by fourteen.


Women then were prisoned behind 

Damp curtains forever soaking salty tears

More than heavy rain.

Women then kept away from being

Able to talk about pride,

But talked mostly about dignity

Between their thighs.

All the three kids or

Two they had went to local schools,

And if about girls,

They were being prepared by then

For a life to shelter in her womb.


Mother was a wide-ranging insurgent, 

Revolting for the hunger in her 

Stomach.

Her stomach wanted a 

Revolution to be fed upon, a rebel

To stand for.

Sometimes, I think God 

Is the sound of mother's daily namaz, 

Her only fear of the heaven and literally

Nothing else.

Her caramel-colored hands

Burnishes gilt on the face of education.

Her fingerprints searing the notches 

Of a bowstring that will soon strangle 

Culture in a blue midnight.

Jerusalem is a thicket of purple thorns,

Awaiting another women to prey upon.


Mother wasn't one,

I would never be

Another. But

Women

Must

Rise

Like 

My mother.

Because like many,

She never let country sing a 'no' for her.

She did that herself. 


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