To A Mother

Ever-patient, bereft of all, Mother Mine! Never didst thou take anybody to task, Nor find fault with any. Sitting on the Shore of an ocean of grief dost thou weep alone a silent daughter of Earth, It seems as if thou, a timid girl of a different village, hast lost thy way, and art questioning thyself, ' Where am I now? ' From far afar the stars call thee, as if thou art their run-away girl come here through mistake along the Milky way. Thou dost seem oppressed by the two-fold tyranny of social custom and its violation. Yet in thy eyes and face sparkles one sad question: 'Why do they tyrannize? Who are they? Whence is this sorrow and grief and pain? They are not known to thee, O Mother, O Daughter of Paradise! So thou dost put up with everything, without murmur and revolt - Incense is burnt by fire - but incense doth not know it. From remote places come many boys and girls, they forget their games as they look at thy face, and say, ' Wilt thou be my mother? ' I know not what arises in thy mind and thou dost press each on thy bosom, toy eyes become filled with the tears of a mother. It seems thou dost know all of them and they all know thee. They seem to be vagrant travellers from thy own homeland on a visit as sojourners to this earth. They will depart after clasping thy neck with their hands and saying simply, ' My Mother! ' Perhaps thou hast forgotten, Mother! that once came to thee travelling like this a Beduin Child of the desert In a tired voice, clasping thy neck he said, 'Wilt thou be my mother? ' Perhaps he came if thou dost remember so, Perhaps he came not if thy memory fails thee. The rebel who left will not return. Perhaps in thy breast is his sepulchre, solemn and silent, or he is not there. Many such things we get, many we lose! Ever-patient Daughter! Mother, bereft of all! Never is mother or God bereft of anything. Perhaps this Memorial, 'bereft of all', is of those Who have returned to the lone breast! (Original:'Ma' a dedication to Birojashundori Devi) [Translation: Abdul Hakim]