Her son -
rests in his mother’s lap.
I look around me—
pictures dance in my eyes.
But where do I find him?
Not pacing the courtyard,
not roasting potatoes by the hearth,
not teasing the dog,
not chasing pigeons from the roof.
Perhaps the pigeon flew away—
never to return.
No, he is not with me.
Only bundles of memories remain,
which one to unwrap—
and whom to ask?
The joy of holding tender fingers,
I read in his father’s eyes
Their restlessness trembles in those hands,
day and night they wave, searching.
The beard that grows unkempt
is no sign of busyness—
it is memory itself,
a fragile hand reaching to be held.
I feel myself running
into the depth of his heart,
unaware—
while he scatters awareness
unaware of himself.
He dwells fiercely in my unconscious,
more than in my waking mind.
He is in my breath,
in every swallowed and unswallowed morsel.
He is in the very sense of my being.
I showed him the world—
and in him I found my world.
He gave me existence,
though many alike me be born,
it was he who gave me life—
life itself,
by calling me Mother!
Why does life not move in one breath now,
as it did for nine months?
Why does my courage not rise,
as it did when he stirred within me?
His father blushed,
I smiled alone toward the wall.
The warmth and chill that touched him
startled me too.
When his tender lips
did not cling to my breast,
pain throbbed like a sealed wound.
But greater than that
is the knot lodged in my heart.
Sleep has fled,
thirst lingers.
In the forest,
stone slabs are being made!
Or,
Whom shall I send?
Whom shall I embrace?
Tell me, Kanchhi!
Where is the key -
to unlock the lock upon my heart?