A Mother, She Must Be...

As I enter a coach

packed with busy women,

whose hands tightly grip,

sandwiches, hand bags, papers,

pens and some anxiety.

I find an empty seat beside a woman

who was intently caressing her mobile screen,

so I slipped in, unnoticed.

Her thumb swipes through photographs,

one after another, slowly, back and forth.

And all of them showed three kids,

with positions flipped, emotions mirrored,

costumes flaunted and all smiles.

She smiled along and so did I.

‘She must be going back to work,

a Monday morning ritual’,

I thought.

But I knew that

she wasn’t back from home yet

and I know she never will be,

for a mother, she must be...

- (c) Vasanthi

Comments

List of Confessions

Photo by Álvaro Serrano on Unsplash One, You should try writing a love letter to yourself, I have written one to myself, it took me 17 years to complete it, that's also how long it took for me to decide if I loved myself. Two, I believe that the heart is flat in our minds, that's why it is so easy to rekindle a wound and also why everything is just a finger's distance from healing. Three, I forgot my own phone number at a cafe coffee day counter, she kept repeating the first few numbers that I had uttered without giving me space to think, maybe we are all her when it comes to counting our mistakes. Four, I have a thing for languages, both for those I understand and those that I don't, I would listen to hours and hours of urdu poetry without knowing what it meant, maybe that is also one kind of silence. Five, I have thought too often about what I would name myself if not for what I have been named, everyt...

Poetry

Photo by Kelly Sikkema on Unsplash What If poems read each other, would they fall in love with each other, or their poets or would they elope in search of the long lost lovers these poets barely take the name of but have a minimum of 15 lines, a winter and an unanswering sky in their poems? (C) Vasanthi

Friendship Factory

Friendship factory Cherry-dropped cakes stacked across glassed counters, my tiny pony tail dances in excitement, friendship oozes out of my eyes, as a 5-year-old, chocolate was my best friend; 19 years old now, nothing has changed. Yet again, like closely knit sweaters, it was family that taught us to share these cakes, it was family that taught us friendship. As the clock strikes four, door bells also ring. Our badminton rackets giggle at all our wrongs shots, the cars that we framed as our hiding spots might still want our fingers to run over its glasses to trace random patterns, I’m sure our cycles have heard our voices more than mobile phones, dear childhood friend, our friendship always rhymes with joy and innocence. We make all kinds of friends- that “When is the next train?” friend, “can you edit my picture?” friend, “I don’t understand this!” friend, “I now want coffee.” friend, “what is life?” friend and “Can I not wake up today!” friend. We are also friends with a ...

A Dreamer's Destination

Search This Blog