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‘What is it Amma?’ the child asked in wide-eyed innocence. The mother smiled, ‘Just another day,’ And like a hopeful bubble, she flew, and gently floated.
And somewhere in the vastness of the azure skyFloated a flimsy, dainty bubble of her hope,Ascending even as her own tentative aspirationsDescended into the humdrum of mundanity.
Clutching the pallu of her crushed cotton sareeHer daughter looked up, as her mother sighed.‘What is it Amma?’ she asked in wide-eyed innocence.The mother smiled, ‘Just another day,’ she said.
A life that had been steeped in traditionShe had lived to the obeisance to others.But the time was nigh now to emerge fromThe shadows that tied her to the servitude.
Holding onto the fragile thread of her hopeShe looked into the angelic eyes of her child.‘If I do not break free now too, she willBe relegated to obscurity like me,’ she surmised.
‘Can I let that happen? Can I let my daughterRetreat into the shadows just like I was made to?NO!’ She shook her head, a vehement oppositionOf her shackles and tugged at the rope that tethered.
Still wrapped in her six yards of shroud, she broke freeOf traditional orthodox tenets and cultural subjugation.Like the hopeful bubble fluttering in the azure leaShe too, flew, gently floated on the warm free breeze.
Picture credits: Pexels
Sonal is a multiple award winning blogger and writer and the founder of a women-centric manpower search firm - www.rianplacements.com. Her first book, a volume of poetry - Islands in the stream - is slated read more...
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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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