A Waiting Mother

Wailing under the vast sky

her tears formed little pools

with a sinking heart, her eyes fixed on the door

she is waiting for the apple of her eyes

her only son, who is now no more!

“He will come, he is running late.”

She has spread the dastarkwaan with lunch

waiting for the door to creak

she talks of how he would hide at lunch

seeing the haakh, he so disliked

and when she made him tomato soup

how gaily he would hug her.

The brazen wind passed by

she gathered the clothes she had laid

pressing a deep blue tee shirt to her bossom

“It’s his favorite one”, she said.

I turn away with tearful eyes

while she assures me that he will come.

She takes me by hand into his room

scattered on the floor are his toys

a cricket bat, a football, miniature action figures,

books, pens, color pencils, tennis balls,

everything that you would find

in an 11 year old’s room.

The sun has set, the night has come

she is worried by the darkness,

she sets to arrange his school bag

“He will be hungry and tired.”

She talks of how crazy he drove her

with this and that, again and again.

“He is such a naughty child.”

Then she remembers that horrendous day

of terrifying cries and stone peltings.

He had just gone out, she ran to the door

too late; too soon he had met his fate

she saw her husband ghost faced

carrying her little one in his arms

soaked in blood with closed eyes

she cries and what a cry that was

the earth shivered on the mother’s plight.

She would not separate him from her bossom

she kissed him, loved him, hugged him tight

she went mad on her son’s sight

rubbing his blood all over her face

she wept and cried for endless nights.

Every day she sits alone under the sky

her aching heart, her tearful eyes

wooing him to come back

endless promises on her part

new bats, new games, his favorite soup

choclates, more playing time, more eidi 

talking endlessly of her love

to the little grave in her courtyard.



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