The creases on the forehead
show the wisdom of experience
the ones below the eyes,
the unshed tears of pain.
She gets up with effort
clutching to a stick
walks stooped , in obvious pain
an endless battle with life
has taken its toll
and yet there she is,
tired in body, vibrant in spirit still.
Happy to see me standing at the door
Her wrinkled face breaks into a toothless smile
Her once youthful beauty
transformed into timeless grace
With gnarled hands, she blesses my head
Her weak fingers run through my hair
Her touch effuses love
I am at home, at last.
Over tea which she insists on making
and brings filled with pride of love
She tells me stories, stories I've heard
Over & over since I was 5,
How she climbed the tree to steal achaar from her mom's kitchen
and how she jumped in Ganga for a swim with her friends
how she caught butterflies in the gardens
and How she met my Nanu...
he's been gone 30 years,
her eyes still brim with love at his mention
We are all grown up now,
busy with our own lives,
caught up in the rat race,
as she sits alone in the house
that always resounded with our laughter
She smiles as I get up to leave,
I turn back to look at her,
standing at the door with her walking stick
in obvious pain, but smiling
waving me luck and love
her eyes thanking me for coming,
asking silently when will I return
and have chai with her,
that she will insist on making
and bring filled with pride of love.
And I wonder...why can't I
Why have I chosen a rat race
over the people who matter the most
Silently quelling all these questions,
I, a mere mortal, move on.
for one of the most phonemenal women I have ever come across...a woman whose faith, hope, optimism towards life and belief in the general goodness of people, a lifetime of struggle and pain have failed to destroy....My Nani. A woman of true substance in every sense of the word
