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

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