Written by Swetha Narayanan
She – a second mother to us, our dearest confidant,
A soul that bartizaned us despite our unbearable mischief;
Often draped in a brick red kanchivaram silk saree,
She would spellbind us with her impeccable beauty;
The scent of mogra flowers she wore on her hair,
Filled the room and put us in an ecstatic trance;
Whilst her eyes lined with kohl, carried deep secrets,
Secrets that she treasured with a twinkle in her eye;
She’d briskly do all her household chores unaided,
Inspiring us and making us wonder if she ever aged;
She’d often narrate doting tales of her childhood,
Whilst we – the grandchildren, sat cross legged on the floor,
Admiring and listening to her with keen intent;
And seldom a summer holiday or vacation passed by,
Without visiting her or getting pampered,
Often to the amuse of my beloved mother;
Her home - a quaint one on a narrow, dilapidated lane,
Yet, filled with love and warmth in abundance;
Years later, I stand in front of the wooden gate,
In the passageway to ‘her’ home – but the house is empty,
With no one to welcome and usher me inside;
I restrain my emotions while a tear escapes my eye,
As the memories come flooding in – of all the times,
She showered me with her warmth and affection!
