She didn’t bewail,
The children needed her with all her composure.
She burnt the midnight oil, studying.
The brightness of day brought with it financial commitments of its own
For the 15 year old.
She lived in a village untouched by cosmopolitanism
That inebriated chap they claimed was her husband, beat her.
Yet, everyday she prayed for his success
The Mother was old. Withering really,
Her ambitious son stood exalted on the threshold of professional success.
‘The boss must be pleased’ He said and she ever-willing, obliged.
The napkins matched the curtains at the party she organized,
But she remained inconspicuous by her absence.
The hallmark of womanhood is the uncanny ability one possesses to assemble one’s life on the edifice of sacrifice.
No stab at acknowledgement, if any at all, of her true worth, can hope to suffice.
Yet she tirelessly toils, yet she quells,
Her desires, for another’s well.
Entrenched in that cataclysm we call emotion,
Yet always magnanimous, always generous,
The brilliance of faith, trust and commitment notwithstanding
She works relentlessly, but from within the wings,
And puts forth for all others,
The masterstroke of her greatness,
A society most welcoming in its stability.