Moma’s Plea

Its already a week late, by now gulmohar would have been in full bloom but it is still regaining its shattered leaves of last winter. Jungle babbler dances, from one branch to another with their weird facial expression. It still has that swing which was hung by your dad for you. You once fell from that swing and you never went back.
Its been 5 years since then I have been staring that wooden gate, almost eaten by termites, waiting for your broad shoulder figure to appear with a huge smile, showing radiance of your teeth and happiness of your soul. I want to run straight to the gate and embrace u in my love, hug you under the gulmohar tree. 
These eyes have almost lost their vision, for which last month I went operation. Doctor said your operation is successful, rather I was busy in wondering about the use of these eyes when I can’t see my son and husband. I sit here beside window, where you saw me last time spinning yarn, before you left home. I was waiting that you will turn and say Ma,I love you. But then I think it would be too selfish to think of such things without actually doing anything ever. 

 
I never entered  your room after you left. Last night when plumbing fitting was being renovated I opened your room. Messed up as expected,with walls filled with Green day and Pink Floyd.I picked up your stuff, which basically included your magazines, novels, diary and thousands of papers. God knows what you had scribbled over them. I never knew you use to  write a diary. I found a blue hardbound diary under the bed sheet. It had pictures clicked by you. One that got selected for National Geographic, other which won BBC nature. You really use to click great pictures. Sometimes I feel I should have given you more liberty. But after your dad died in that car accident,  I never wanted to loose you. I might have grown into an angry women who lost her husband just after 10 years of marriage but I never wanted to become one. The diary had a greeting for me. A beautiful purple shade greeting which said I love you mother. I wish I could stand up on those words.

 
 I have spend five Diwali without lighting a diya. It always use to be your thing. I always think of you how you use to sit and arrange every diya, how you would tip toe and steal khoya barfi, kaju katli. After you left home no sweet was  ever made within these four walls. Don’t you miss them?
 My eyes have wrinkled. My hairs have more white strands than black. I don’t keep them open because there is no one to look  them and say, “Mom you look like Madubala.” Your dad use to say this and u acquired it. I miss your laughter. Sometimes I sleep in the gallery beside morning glory which we bought on last Mother’s day. I wish I could remember every detail of that day but who knew it would be our last Mother’s day.

A mother’s heart cries every night as it looks to the picture of her son and husband. Questioning herself and her god where did she went wrong?

ping