I was a child bride
In that large stately house
Where she reigned like a queen,
Having borne the only son
Among the three co sisters
Whose inauspicious wombs
Could squeeze out only girls.
Rising before sunrise, she decked
In gold and silk shawls.
She yelled at the slothful servants
And guided me through the chores.
As her hands coaxed the cymbals
To the dulcet tunes of her evening bhajan
She would take me to task
For putting too much salt
In the potato curry, a favourite with her son.
She taught me a hundred skills-
To pickle raw mango, to knit a sock and to embroider.
And as I pressed her feet every night,
Blessed me with the boons to be soon a mother.
Years passed and we moved homes
As my husband progressed in life.
And I bore her two grandsons
Much to her satisfaction and grandmotherly pride.
Still she decided everything
The fastings and the feasting
And I happily played a second fiddle
And we cursed the saas bahu of soaps
Who created much ado about really nothing.
My own sons got married
And moved away abroad
And they would come home
Once in two years
With flighty girls who easily got bored.
They fought with me
For expecting respect from their wives
And berated me for the shackles
Of bondage that I happily wore all our lives.
More years passed, they stopped coming
And I cried myself hoarse
And to her ancient bosom, did I desperately cling.
And when she was finally bedbound
when Alzheimer's took hold.
I fed her patiently with spoon
Wiping the corners of her drooling mouth.
And sang her many a hymn
To soothe her foggy mind
Then did I remember her regal face
That once welcomed me as I crossed her home's threshold.
- Neha Bansal
