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A dirge by a mother, who has just lost her child to the erasing blackness of death. She was a mother. But she's nameless, now. A mother, no more.
A dirge by a mother, who has just lost her child to the erasing blackness of death. She was a mother. But she’s nameless, now. A mother, no more.
Milk of sorrow, drunk, As dawn begins- though it does not seem, For the majestic sun- bowed, And Heaven’s tears danced, many at a time, And a bleak cloud crossed the majestic hills!
A mask of death put, Over tragedy, for, What is greater sorrow than parting…
The mirror is draped, The ocean, at its large is still, And the trees, and the wind, Are hushed…
~~~
Sorrow sunken in eyes, And shoulders slumped, bearing The weight of Death’s hands…
Throngs of white, they surround you, Sitting- wondering- weeping, Sitting, and wondering and weeping. Why you had reached for Heaven, In the prime of your youth! In this time of joyful bliss and haven!
‘Why?’ she whispers into your ears, Strands of grey in a messy bun, Brown shawl over a red sari, Her tears falling on your Pale cheek- sliding and resting.
‘Why?’ she asks, looking through The black RayBans that shield Your windows from the rest of the world! You do not answer, and Her face wrinkles, sorrow writ all over!
And then, she lays on you, Clutching your white shirt, She searches for that familiar ‘dub- hub- dub’, And, she remembers that It is gone, like the destiny of everyone else!
And, down memory lane, she walks, And there you are!
The tiny little boy- against her bosom, Resting- Resting, Your tiny fist clutching her tangles, Resting peacefully…
There you are!
A scared youth, in her arms, In her arms, seeking and taking comfort!
And, there you are,
Waving to her, in the early morn, To work, and as she waves To you, she realizes that you are Slipping through her fingers, Slipping through her fingers…
And she wakes, in the dawn of The present day- against your white shirt! She loosens her grip on you, And though she knows not, why You reached for heaven, Does she know that ‘twas Your will, and your will was obeyed!
She kisses you, gentle and caring, And she is reminded that With your parting, you are nameless forevermore, And she is too, For she was a mother, and is nevermore!
For she was a mother, and is nevermore!
If you or anyone you know is feeling suicidal, here are some of the helplines available in India. Please call.
Aasra, Mumbai: 022-27546669
Sneha, Chennai: 044-2464 0050
Lifeline, Kolkata: 033-2474 4704
Sahai, Bangalore: 080–25497777
Roshni, Hyderabad: 040-66202000, 040-66202001
A version of this was first published here.
Image source: shutterstock
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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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