The Story of a Crushed Rose!

When people see my mother, they see a happy polished woman ready to welcome everybody.

But living with her for twenty years have taught me how fake external appearances can be. My mother is the most demanding, the most innocent woman. She guards her children like a safe containing gold and cares too much about others opinions of her.

But, when I really look into her, I see a woman trying really hard to create her identity, a woman who has been broken down by the atrocities of life.

I remember, once, while going through my mother’s cupboard, I found a book “Shesher Kobita” by Rabindranath Tagore. It was not the book that intrigued me but the poem written on the first page of it. The amazing lucidity of the words and the naked display of emotions and love stirred the inner romantic in me.

In the end, it was written:

“Yours Geeta!”

The poem was for my father and it was written by her, My Mother.

At times, I feel scared thinking that she has squandered too much of her time on me and my brother. I am scared that one day, when she will look at her reflection, she will see a face speaking of resignations and disappointments, not for us but for her, for giving up her life, her dreams and everything that could have been her.

And there lies my fear, my resentment.