Nah. I'm A Blundering Mom

Nah. I'm a blundering mom.

Far from your images festooned with

Crisply folded sarees

And crimson tainted hair partings.

Imperfect, fat mom. With puny kids.

But I make ends meet. End to end.

Oh, I have a life;

When the toddler is snoozing

And the older kid goes schooling.

In the wee bit of hours

That squeeze in between,

I cook, fold, clean, sip hot chai,

Read, fret and wean, and muse out loud.

I've seen the Grandmom through this.

I've seen Mom do her bit.

As I run through the same golden cage

I wish my offsprings break it.

May the golden cage become history.

May the exaltation stop.

I'm stuck to a golden pedestal

That hampers my climb atop (the Maslow's).

One day I'll undo the fastenings

And show my kids how to fly

(And that I can fly)

And that I create beginnings-

Apart from mock tests, food, havoc, stories, and sanctuary.