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The author describes her mental state when she waited for a loved one to get better and expresses her gratitude for the medical fraternity through this poignant poem.
As my eyelids close,
And the lashes squeeze my waterlines into their wholesomeness,
Pearl droplets slide one by one,
Gently along the slope of my cheeks.
“Will it really be over?”, I pose.
Many thoughts rambled as I froze.
Two swords don’t fit in a scabbard single, they say.
But, Hope and Despair settled in me harmoniously for a decade.
“Who between the two within me, shall I let victorious – dubiety or credence ?” I apprehensively sought.
Credence, came the reply,
As if he understood my heart’s doubt.
As he stood before me, head to toe draped in green,
At six feet towards the sky, he looked immense to my tiny frame.
Meekly, I gathered myself, with my long-standing friends –
Fear and Courage, two-in-one.
It’s tough to actually be strong,
Yes, it’s easier said than done.
“My Gratitude is your Payment”, I uttered without words.
My flickering eyes conveyed it all.
“But it’s only my duty, as I humbly stand on my first day’s oath,” said he wordlessly.
His tired smile said it all.
The wait was long, call it a decade.
“But the last laugh is mine!”, said my fist, as I rise.
10 Years and a Million Tears
Were all worth, as I look up to say cheers!
Poet’s Note:
This is a depiction of the emotional situation of a chronic patient’s immediate family member, as the surgeon, just out of the operation theatre shares the news – its a success. After ’10 Years and a Million Tears’, you have your “life” gifted back to you! A humble attempt to show my gratitude to the medical fraternity who strive hard to stand by their ethics and integrity in treating patients. What you’re doing is most noble and irreplaceable! A loving dedication to my boy, Anmol, who’s been suffering from a rare form of epilepsy from the age of 1, and who is waiting for the past 6+ years, in hope of some miraculous healing towards his recovery.
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Neena was the sole caregiver of Amma and though one would think that Amma was dependent on her, Neena felt otherwise.
Neena inhaled the aroma that emanated from the pan and took a deep breath. The aroma of cumin interspersed with butter transported her back to the modest kitchen in her native village. She could picture her father standing in the kitchen wearing his white crisp kurta as he made delectable concoctions for his only daughter.
Neena grew up in a home where both her parents worked together in tandem to keep the house up and running. She had a blissful childhood in her modest two-room house. The house was small but every nook and cranny gave her memories of a lifetime. Neena’s young heart imagined that her life would follow the same cheerful course. But how wrong she was!
When she was sixteen, the catastrophic clutches of destiny snatched away her parents. They passed away in a road accident and Neena was devastated. Relatives thronged her now gloomy house and soon it was decided that she should be married off.
Being a writer, Nivedita Louis recognises the struggles of a first-time woman writer and helps many articulate their voice with development, content edits as a publisher.
“I usually write during night”, says author Nivedita Louis during our conversation. Chuckling she continues,” It’s easier then to focus solely on writing. Nivedita Louis is a writer, with varied interests and one of the founders of Her Stories, a feminist publishing house, based in Chennai.
In a candid conversation she shared her journey from small-town Tamil Nadu to becoming a history buff, an award-winning author and now a publisher.
Nivedita was born and raised in a small town in Tamil Nadu. It was for schooling that she first arrived in Chennai. Then known as Madras, she recalls being awed by the city. Her love-story with the city, its people and thus began which continues till date. She credits her perseverance and passion to make a difference to her days as a vocational student among the elite sections of Madras.
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