I am a girl who decided to go to school barefoot, because that’s what other young children from needy families in a village were used to…
I am a girl whose best childhood memory is playing with sapphire waves on a tranquil seaside and listening to chimes soaring from a temple…
I am a girl who read novels every afternoon to comfort her fragile grandmother critically ill suffering with deadly cancer…
A girl who sent the domestic help to school, and taught the boy language and math whenever she could...in a country where that was unheard of…
I am a girl who started teaching with lot of work and very little pay even though her husband earned a handsome salary, enough to live a life of comfort…
A girl who passionately attended a craft class in an unfavourable, almost scary, situation in a country where women did not drive and travel by themselves…
I am that girl who renewed her passions and started writing with a goal of being published, at the mature age when she completed all her family responsibilities…
Notes: recently wrote a bio-poem “I am who I am” for a contest and posted on Soup. Now wondering…isn’t this my real bio!!!!
Mother had throat cancer
Food pipe blocked, could not swallow
She would struggle with a bowl of food and tears in eyes
Desperately try to eat
Unsuccessful, would drink water or milk
She became very weak
One day friend told her
"Why don't you put a pipe in food pipe?
Then, you can eat. I know someone who has done it"
On the day of operation, I vividly remember
I was getting ready for school, she was combing my hair
I told her "Plait is very loose."
"I lack strength" she replied
I didn't say anything, I understood
Prayed her suffering would end.
That was the last conversation I had with her
She died during operation.
Although I cried inconsolably
deep within I was happy for her
Her suffering had finally ended.
We never had a maid or domestic help
Despite ill health, she did everything on her own
Still, when she died, many maids and poor around cried
She had touched their life in positive way
13.06.2021
For A Tender Moment From Childhood, Malabika Ray Choudhury
If you wonder why to men many
Womenfolk seldom seem born funny,
The reason’s straight forward
Based on what I’ve observed:
They need no humour to please any,
To them spade’s not just spade—
And menfolk included,
Let men give this truth not a penny.
___________________________________
Pandemic raging, many women work from home. And with domestic help either not available or not advisable, they have to look after the house, children and the kitchen.
Obviously they are hard pressed for the luxury of a lighter mood, and may give an impression that they lack a funny bone
.
Tongue-in-cheek |05.05.2021|
I now wear a mask
So do you
Credit the mask
For bringing a change
Making us new
The domestic help
No longer around
Any grudges and complaints?
No!
‘He’s having harder times'
We’ve found
The veggie and fruit vendors
Coming to our lane
Do we haggle with them?
No!
We are so understanding
Of their pain
Helping others
Has become
Our second nature
Our past memories
Comforting us
In an uncertain future
We are talking ‘spirituality’
Why?
Any sudden realization?
No!
Actually all ‘materialism’ has halted
So, we've broadened
Our parochial vision.
Masks are uniting humanity
Like never before
It isn’t an individual fight
Against COVID-19
We are in it
Together, for sure
But a nagging question remains-
What happens
When the masks come off?
Will the ‘real' us be back
Again embracing
Our old habits to scoff
At care, concern, compassion
And all such 'meaningless' things
Or,
We would’ve learnt our lessons
Which this tragedy brings?
DESOLATION IN DESPONDENCE
Me jovial convivial social being
always cherishing cheery dynamism in every step,
now global crisis putting in compulsive isolation.
House confinement subject to social distancing running mandatory.
Standstill static stagnant situation creating suffocation.
But what to do, no alternative.
I must cope up to fight against invader virulent virus Corona
spreading silhouette of sudden scare in sky of global life,
endangering mass of populace.
Home imprisonment tough,
but tougher to manage household cores
for Indian Senior citizens dependent on domestic help.
Wishful expectation to start Count Down
to end Lock Down at earliest
to get relief on revival of normal life.
04/03/20
'STRAND POETRY PICK 1' Contest by Brian Strand
In the abode of a man with a heart of stone,
Out of Compassion, his spouse saved me from scraps and bone,
But by his hand I want to be left alone.
A domestic help I was meant to render,
But Mr. Maxwell’s eyes behind my back yearned for another,
Creeping at night into my room he sought my tender.
Protest to my mistress-his spouse I can’t,
For to lose a job and fine rations I can’t,
And his forewarning wounded me like a treacherous ant.
How can a man be absent of conscience?
But in the eyes of his folks full of pretense
In between my legs I find his sense.
In the eyes of all he proclaims love for spouse,
Under my curtains at night he creeps in like a hungry mouse.
I crave for his absence but can’t leave his house.
The loo enters during summers,
The chill penetrates in the winters
The ceiling leaks during monsoons,
The mosquitoes sting like harpoons
Came to the city with many dreams
From the lands of plains, valleys & streams
Came to the city, to earn a living, with wishes
The mirage of untold, unforeseen riches
(The City) Pulled them into its greedy claws,
Hiding it’s own weaknesses, it’s flaws
What have they become here, now?
Forced to make their heads bow,
As a driver, sweeper or domestic help
Confined to their lowly class, like a slave’s whelp
Ridiculed, raped, beaten, manipulated
Was it in their fate, to be cheated?
Were they not happy, in their valleys, their farms?
What drove them to the city, in great swarms?
Will they ever go back, escape?
Or will the city life forever hold them agape?
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