Sunday Poem By Ezhil Vendhan

A mediocre Indian Mother

There is nothing greater than
my mother’s grace for me,
as she started loving me
from the very moment of conception,
she bore all pains and strains she experienced during my growth in her womb
and till I grow elder.
She agreed to enter into a neighbour’s little house
at once she sensed the labour pain,
as her parents and relatives had a myth
about her own house,
that all children born there were only
female including her.
She fantasized her first child was a male,
and once the nurse placed me near her
and whispered that she was blessed with a boy,
countless stars gleamed in her eyes
and offered me her first kiss, she told.