Poushali Maitra
Ma ate alone,
behind our cheer.
From a plate too small,
it would appear.
Smaller than her palm,
No, not with us
at the table bright,
She shied away
from the family light.
Behind the sink,
where the bulb blinked,
She sat tired and sore,
In a minu saree,
With turmeric stains,
A woman who would
never ask for more.
Yet shone on us
a steady flame.
To seek warmth,
she thought was shame.
She served our plates
with perfect pride.
Round chapatis,
puffed and wide.
Big chicken legs,
with golden skin.
Steel cut bowls
that brimmed within.
For the grandchild,
the crispiest potato fry.
Napkins folded,
neat and dry.
Baba’s fish, less oily,
pinch of rock salt mild.
Son’s curd,
sweetened with jaggery,
Her favourite,
her only male child.
She loved the opposite,
no one knew:
Salty fish, sour curd,
and spicy stew.
But who cared
for a silent bird?
About her tastebud,
none spoke or heard.
But she knew
what each belly chose-
Grandpa's favourite,
cubed cold mangoes,
Set in tidy rows.
But after us,
when all was done,
She ate in silence,
facing none.
As if her hunger
was a shame, a sin,
She swallowed it
deep within.
Burnt chapatis,
black and thin.
Leftovers scraped
from serving tin.
She was never asked to join,
she never did,
never planned.
Just ate alone,
with lonesome hand.
All would praise her
grand buffet,
Then leave her nuts
at the end of day.
No one asked
what filled her bowl.
All filled their bellies,
emptied her soul.
A frozen shoulder,
Severe fungal itch,
Fractured wrist,
or caesarean stitch.
Nothing and nothing
let her rest.
She cooked and cleaned
with zest.
The kitchen was
her comfort zone,
Her queendom,
without a real throne.
She kept herself
in corners dim,
While others tuned,
she lost rhythm.
Invisible by day and night,
Controlled by words
that stole her light.
When entitled men would
smirk or jeer,
She bit her tongue
and served with cheer.
Still poured them tea,
with ginger warm.
Still braved the hush
before the storm.
She disappeared behind
Baba's rise,
Left her prose,
poems, and prize.
Packed his bags, holdalls,
moved town to town,
Let all her dreams
come crashing down.
No rewards,
no cash of her own.
A queen who never
claimed her throne.
She even soaked
the wrath of one drunken kin,
Wiped their spills
with Dettol and Vim.
Though not hers to shout,
not hers to cry,
She knew too well
how to hush the storm
or mop it dry.
Her eldest child,
selfish as hell,
Promised her futures,
fake to tell.
She spoke to Ma
of wonderland
Of visits to temples,
and dining grand.
Made her rock
a crying brat,
While she herself slept
like a drugged rat,
Or curled python
on a Curlon mat.
Baby cried
till morning four.
Ma looked like zombie,
with eyes too sore.
She rose to cook
at morning light,
Wore a smile
into another fight.
Scrubbed and stirred
with aching back,
Her own life lived
in total lack.
Always eager,
yet kept at bay,
No one asked
what she would weigh.
Her own room,
to be painted,
cream or grey.
She made no moves,
no plans, no claim.
She bore the house,
also all its shame.
The door nameplates
never bore
any women's name.
When children scored,
the praise would fly:
“Your father’s legacy!”
the neighbours would cry.
Her sweat, her tears
unseen, ignored.
The medals pinned
only to Baba's board.
Every need
of hers delayed,
Her health ignored,
her pain mislaid.
Her spine bent
more than just in form,
It curled to fit
the family norm.
Once a Ma,
a woman no more,
She shared her bed
with kids, all four.
Day by day,
she made herself
So small, so soft,
so still, so stealth.
She faced, she bore,
she hurt, she dealt.
That we who lived
in her warm shame,
Forgot the place
from where we came.
She taught me history,
English and maths.
But I had learnt big,
to be less.
She taught me silence
dressed as grace,
The art of leaving
not a trace.
Of pleasing first,
of self-effacing,
Of shrinking
till you need replacing.
And now I see,
with growing qualm,
I too reach for that
little palm
A plate too small,
too worn, too mild,
Passed from Ma
to the girl-child.
I learnt more,
more than hers
yes, deeper,
deeper scars:
I chased lost men
beyond the stars.
Oh! I had deeper,
deeper scars,
To build a pedestal,
soft and tall,
To place a man
and bear his fall.
To people-please
and never say no,
To call chaos
“chemistry’s glow.”
Men whispered love,
then took my skin,
Promised vows
they'd never begin.
Left me aching,
and all alone.
Before I knew,
they were gone.
They dated and wed,
with pomp and flair.
I beamed, gave gifts,
and hid despair.
I watched them kiss,
held back my cry,
Laughed through pain
I couldn’t deny.
Played the friend,
the kin, the saint.
Played well-wisher,
and also the light.
While needing, hiding,
bleeding profusely
through thousands
of stormy, haunted night.
I let them drink,
drink from the
only cup I had.
If they were happy,
I was mistakenly glad.
Then I chose a gentleman
with hollow, empty eyes.
We built such a gentle life
of only gentle lies.
He held my hand,
but never my soul.
I felt like hugging
an aching hole.
And then I birthed
a girl so sweet,
Who too learned
to dim, to retreat.
She too was tricked
by mouth's sugar lines,
Blinded by the
faces' glitter signs.
She too bled
in love and bore
The weight of a
child in her belly
three months fate,
Remaining six
didn’t tally.
When she approached
to claim her truth,
He blackmailed her
with stolen youth
Her naked body
framed in secret show.
The threat
left her frozen,
nowhere to go.
My heart split
at her silent dread.
I saw my ghost
in how she bled,
From deep
generational wounds.
While my own son,
with bitter tone,
Used my past
to strike me down.
"Your mistakes,"
he hissed with blame.
We huddled like penguins
in family's cold shame.
But pain is long,
and memory deep.
My own first loss
still makes me weep,
A teenage love
that broke me down,
Left my heart,
a multi-stitched gown.
And Ma? She knew.
She knew it all.
On bitter nights,
she saw me fall
On my knees.
Even heard
my suppressed cries,
Suffocated in pillows
printed with maple trees.
But she never
met my tearful eyes,
Never gave her hand
that I could rise.
She couldn't bear
to face my fall,
That her child was
rejected after all.
We acted fine
throughout the day.
We talked of
weather, books, dresses,
spices and the sky grey.
We smiled more,
and in my core,
I wrapped up my grief
in "silkerchief,"
And on its face,
I shut the door.
So silence wrapped us,
tight and black.
No mother’s arms,
no words to track.
She thought denial
kept us clean,
But silence
curdled soury
in greenish mean.
That night I saw
my daughter shake.
I felt the ground
beneath me break.
And I chose not to
rake over the coals.
I held her hand,
I chose to speak-
I became the mother
I used to seek.
I looked at pain
and gave it a field, a sky,
Not just a room.
“Let grief unfold, baby,”
I said, “let love resume.”
Then I roared “No more,”
with open throat.
Didn't hush up,
neither let it pass,
nor float.
I drew a line,
I shouted, “No.”
I trusted my gut
to call on a foe.
I claimed a plate
not small, not mild.
I passed strength,
not shame, to my child.
The lineage stops,
the cursed spells unwind,
When a woman whole
speaks up her mind.
I break the chain
with blood and bone.
I am the brick.
I am the stone.
I am finally,
my own strong home.