Maybe in the kitchen or the veranda
Where the birds pay her a visit
Where the flowerpots are placed in a row
Where the floor is damp from the wet clothes hanging to dry
There, have you ever heard your mother cry?
In the bathroom, while taking a quick shower
Before serving the morning meal
Then the drain gets clogged from her hairs
(only the foggy mirror sees her tears)
She looks at the shadow that once belonged to her
There, have you seen your mother blur?
Away in the distance,
Away from the teapot, the pots and pans, and the spices
And the faithful duties of a mother
She continued the cycle of birthing, caring, falling, and daring—a celestial woman
as long as she gives.
There she fades.
What she left as a little girl
The jar of pickles, the partition stories, and the death of her father
(A red lipstick used by many)
There, perhaps, she hummed a song
She dreamed of a dream never fulfilled
She traveled afar but never claimed her wing(s)
And now, after many years
Have you ever heard your mother sing?
© image: a young mother and her child
Kolkata (Calcutta)