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A mother looks at raising a son who will become a man with the right values, while hiding from him the truth of his birth to protect him.
He has my eyes Almond-shaped and blue, And a smile so soft Like the morning dew.
He holds my finger With a trust so deep, A miracle so divine My love would reap.
He is my son Yes my very own, The last promise That I’d never be alone.
He points to the stars, With an innocent smile “My Daddy’s up there!” I play along my wile.
Half mine and half yours, The father he never saw It’s been long since you left But the pain is still raw.
The emptiness of you gone, Haunted me for days. Until he came to my life Rescued with his embrace.
That night was enchanting Your love seemed so pure, I was uninhibited yet coy Mesmerized in your allure.
Was this my destiny, Or a willful choice? I ask myself time and again When I hear his cheery voice.
He thinks you are with God, I protect him with all my might. The truth is harsh and cruel Still shivers me with fright.
For you are in this very world Alive and aware An old flame is all I am to you, Not worth your care.
They say time heals all pain But time is eternity Days and nights of sorrow, A struggle for serenity.
The void you have created Consumes my heart in its prime. But I choose to forgive you For the sake of this lifetime.
I could argue with God That life has been unfair But the joy that he brings me, Makes my heart repair.
To make him a good man, Is all I live for any more. May he never be the reason For another woman’s sore.
Published earlier here.
Image source: mother and son by Shutterstock.
I like to write about the problems that have plagued the Indian society. I feel that the concept of gender equality is still alien , and that has been the focus of my articles and posts. read more...
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As he stood in front of his door, Nishant prayed that his wife would be in a better mood. The baby thing was tearing them apart. When was the last time he had seen his wife smile?
Veena got into the lift. It was a festival day, and the space was crammed with little children dressed in bright yellow clothes, wearing fancy peacock feather crowns, and carrying flutes. Janmashtami gave her the jitters. She kept her face down, refusing to socialize with anyone.
They had moved to this new apartment three months ago. The whole point of shifting had been to get away from the ruthless questioning by ‘well-wishers’.
“You have been married for ten years! Why no child yet?”
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