Childhood spent in fantasy,
Filling tiny cups of memories.
Of early mornings and agarbathi,
And jasmine plucked from the bushes.
Strung by deft fingers into garlands,
For the lord and the servant.
Kindly neighbours adored the lass,
Feeding and clothing
The little princess as if their own.
They grew her in a world of their own.
Crisp starched sarees ironed to perfection
Training school stories and rare independence.
A world away from the poverty
That haunted the other siblings.
Marriage promised a change
From a burdened living,
But alas little do we know
How time does decieve us.
Orthodoxy and tradition crippled her soul
As she struggled to balance
A life with four children
And an indecisive workoholic.
Where is the Man?
What is there in this for me?
No answers there, as she absorbed herself
Consumed herself with rearing.
Bitterness and recrimination
Remorse and despair
Negativity and anger
Hardened her core
Children reared on simmering anger
Each one coped individually
A legacy of anger and discontent
I fear, is carried in the genes.
I watch this circus of life
As a spectator and a participant.
Hoping that I can break this cycle
Of intolerance and viciousnous.
Happiness, joy and love
Are easily taken for granted.
Yet its value is known only,
When we witness a troubled soul.
The story of many lives
Is mirrored here in my lines.
To identify these souls
To support and help them.
Break the cycle
It is an illness