- October 25, 2017
- Posted by: Farzana Suri
- Category: Uncategorized
“A mother’s body remembers her babies. Each child has it’s own entreaties to body and soul.”
It was a day that seemed the sun melted its heat onto Earth. The corridors of the courtroom were pervaded with stale sweat, the nauseating smell coming from the open toilets and the walls were painted with spit of all kinds. She sat on the steps with her head in her hands. The world had reached the apocalypse for her. She fell faint and her limbs seemed to barely support her. Her thoughts kept racing to the time of nuzzling the little girl’s soft belly, the smell of her downy hair, the excitement of first day at play school, the movie dates and birthdays and so so many special days.
The little girl of 8 touched her head and kept pacifying her, ‘It’s okay, Mommy, I’m not too far away. I’ll keep visiting you. I’ll never leave you. You’re the best, Mommy.” The young mother looked at her pleadingly, “Then, why?” She replied, “Mommy, they need me.” And, at that fleeting moment, the mother knew. Her baby was lost forever.
That seems like eons ago. Several years have passed. The initial pain that broke down her nerves almost to the point of no return have been assuaged by the love of her family and friends. They lifted her to find her own strength. The days slipped into years of longing. Bitterness crept in. Try as she may, the mother hurt and bled, deeply from within. She knocked on all temples and churches. Partied like the world would end tomorrow. To numb the pain. She worked like a woman who had to accomplish all today. And, one day the shell cracked.
On a light, chilly evening, she was sitting alone in the pew of the church. A petite lady of 60 years, Jane walked up to her and gave her a tight hug. She looked at her in surprise and crumbled. Jane looked at her and whispered, “It’s a beautiful life. Bask and take in every beauty around you. Leave all that you are holding onto. It’s over. Stop scratching the wound. Let it heal.” Jane planted a soft kiss on her forehead and left. The sound of the stomping of the walking stick hitting the flow reverberated. And, she was gone. The realisation dawned on her. Where has keeping the past alive got her? The peace she thought she’d find in ‘things’ or ‘going out’ kept eluding her.
Time heals. Everything. The ache remains, though in a nook where she has let it rest though it snakes its way back on days like today. Sigh! And, begone!!
The cat jumps on to the table and gives her a headbutt. Looking at her wistfully. She slides her face on to his head and rests her chin and says, “Thank you.”
Happy Mother’s Day – to those women who are blessed with children and those who have no one to wish them.
To those men, too who are playing mother to the children.
Love and light and loads of happiness