Of New Beginnings, Of Breaking Shackles, And Of Mothers And Daughters

‘What is it Amma?’ the child asked in wide-eyed innocence. The mother smiled, ‘Just another day,’ And like a hopeful bubble, she flew, and gently floated.

And somewhere in the vastness of the azure sky
Floated a flimsy, dainty bubble of her hope,
Ascending even as her own tentative aspirations
Descended into the humdrum of mundanity.

Clutching the pallu of her crushed cotton saree
Her daughter looked up, as her mother sighed.
‘What is it Amma?’ she asked in wide-eyed innocence.
The mother smiled, ‘Just another day,’ she said.

Holding onto the fragile thread of her hope
She looked into the angelic eyes of her child.
‘If I do not break free now too, she will
Be relegated to obscurity like me,’ she surmised.

‘Can I let that happen? Can I let my daughter
Retreat into the shadows just like I was made to?
NO!’ She shook her head, a vehement opposition
Of her shackles and tugged at the rope that tethered.

Still wrapped in her six yards of shroud, she broke free
Of traditional orthodox tenets and cultural subjugation.
Like the hopeful bubble fluttering in the azure lea
She too, flew, gently floated on the warm free breeze.

Picture credits: Pexels

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