Early in the morning, when I woke up, there was silence in the air and sadness everywhere that sums up.
I could hear someone at the door, I ran towards it, and he was lying on the floor.
He lay as if a huge old tree had fallen, his eyes as small as a grain of pollen.
Pale and blue was his skin, silent was our house; I could hear a falling pin.
He was no more, the doctor said; they declared him dead.
A heart attack was his killer; he was my strength pillar.
I didn’t eat for days; this was the most challenging phase.
My bangles were broken, sindoor wiped off I was given a white saree. For my widowhood a token.
My little twin boys made no noise.
They were taken away from their mother; my in-law’s dint bother.
I was called names; my heart burned in flames.
No more could I bear this abuse, the threat, the insult, the physical violence, the bruise.
One night I dared; I dared to escape.
I prepared myself for the hurdles to come.
My children and I ran; we lived in a slum.
I worked day and night to prove myself right.
We struggled to cross every hurdle.
Today my younger one became a doctor. The elder is an author.
I dint give up, and you shouldn’t too.
Photo by Tom Watkins on Unsplash
