Tuesday 14 October 2014

Vacation time ! :)

Knock, knock….  I’m back here at my lovely space. 

I’ve been absent from the blogosphere for a long time now, and I know it isn’t fair.

Though I’ve been reading blogs, I have not at all been active in writing over the past one month, and it doesn’t sound good, even to me.

After all, this is the world I chose for myself ; this is the blog I gave birth to with so much love; how could I ignore it for so long ?

No, I’m not giving any excuses for not having written for this long . It is my mistake and I take the responsibility for the same :(

As I said, the hiatus has been a long one, and one that made me think a lot.I thought , thought and thought and ideas developed inside my head.I put them on paper and got back to thinking :D

Now they wait on my notepad, expecting me to carve them into stories, or poems or anything that I might feel they are worth.

And yes, I will do that.

Slowly, steadily.

But, after my long awaited vacation.

Yippieeeeeeeee ! I said it ;)

I’m leaving on vacation tomorrow, that is , the 15th.


A  month-and-a-little-more long trip to Kerala.

So much to do there !

A wedding to attend, in all flamboyant colours .

Visiting temples, and bringing back holy, sweet memories for the next year……

Meeting friends !

Catching up with relatives over filter kaapi :)

Spending some relaxing days at Vynika, the new home which we built last year at Palakkad….

I may not have net connectivity, so I’m not sure about being able to post updates. But I promise to update as and when I find it possible to :)

So , see you all after a break :)


Tuesday 16 September 2014

Perspective !

“ I bought these”, she said , arranging them , three in a row, on the window sill.

“ Empty, like your brain,” I teased her.

“ But ready to be filled with pretty flowers, for me ”,  her reply was quick.


Word Count : 36

Linking this to the Fiction Challenge " From 15 to 50"  for September, at Shailaja's The Moving Quill.

Friday 22 August 2014

A piece of you, for peace of life....

Should I do it ?
Yes, you should.
What if he gets killed ?
On the contrary, what if he lives ?
Am I doing the right thing ?
You did it with the pigs, successfully.
They are pigs, this is human.
You’re gifting him a life.

These are some of the questions that the two halves of his mind speak as he gets ready to perform the surgery, the first of its kind. On one side, he is a confident surgeon, sure of his success, and very well aware that his success will create a medical miracle and a path for many to follow. On the other, he battles self doubt. The negatives of ‘what if’ loom large in front of his eyes.
A battle of thoughts and emotions later, he goes ahead and does what his medical ethics ask him to do - to try saving a life if he can.

After nine hours of work involving a team of thirty people , Dr Christiaan Barnard created history , Louis Washkansky became the world’s first recipient and Denise Darvall, the first donor.
Yes, the world’s first successful human heart transplant , this was , way back in 1967.
(In italics  above is the crux of what he thought , as he prepared himself for the surgery, as revealed in his book, One Life).

She was just 16 then. And her liver was threatening to make her bid good-bye to the beautiful world around her. But she wanted to live. She could, if she got her liver replaced.
Frantic searches for donors. Taking samples. Tests. More tests. Trying for the best match. Failures.  Repeating the cycle.
Her parents couldn’t , but her aunt came forth, ready to donate a piece of her liver to her niece. Miraculously, she was found to be the perfect match as a donor.
And then, law hindered. Legal hindrances seemed insurmountable at one point of time.
But fate wouldn’t let them fail. 
The story came to the attention of the society, and the Chief Minister of the state himself came forward to sort out the legal glitches and give a ‘ go-ahead’ for the surgery.
Prayers. Financial help. More prayers.
And finally, she started her journey towards life again. From a point where she would have fallen, but for the timely intervention of her aunt, and her magnanimity.
Swathi Krishna is now 19, and pursuing her graduation in Commerce from Ernakulam, Kerala. She’s currently getting trained in Classical dance forms too, as a part of her health regimen.

You  have two sons, and you’ve been raising them alone ever since they lost their father. They’re so loving, the sole joy in your life. One fine evening, the bike that they ride falls prey to an accident, killing the younger
of the two, and leaving the elder one battling for his life. To say that you’re shattered would be a grave understatement, and the next evening , you receive news that the elder son is brain-dead.
What do you do when fate plays this cruel game ?
No, you don’t fall down. You rise up in the face of the threatening grief, and you decide that your son will live through three other people.
You donate his liver, and two kidneys.
We salute you, Rajeena Ma’m, for being a strong woman, and a stronger mother.

Well, these are just two of the many inspiring stories on Organ Donation.
Would you like to read more ? Please do.

And now for a personal story (cutting short a long painful one, of course).
My aunt had received a kidney in a successful transplant, almost 16 years back. She had started living her life normally after that, but we lost her two years later. Even as we mourned at the loss, we were thankful that she had actually received an extended lease of life because of the kind-hearted lady who had donated her the kidney.

Ever since, organ donation has been a topic close to my heart.

God creates life, mother’s womb nurtures it, and brings it out. We grow.
Every single thing about our body is a miracle.
We all are miracles, that way. So when someone’s miracle doesn’t function properly, isn’t it a good thing that we have the power to set it right for them ?
How ?  By donating our organs. That would bring solace to so many aching hearts across the world.
We all know about blood donation, and have read enough and more on how the precious liquid saves lives. We are aware of blood banks too.
How about organ banks ?
I am.
We are.
Organ banks.
Who have been blessed with a good, healthy body, whose organs can help someone gain a new life, even after the heart has stopped beating and blood has stopped flowing.

Donating an organ is donating a life.
Imagine how many people can feel the difference in their lives if just one person donates all his organs -  eyes, heart, liver, kidneys, bone marrow, tissues…. isn’t that great ? :)
So, if we all decide to be donors, imagine the massive change it shall bring in the world around us !
True, little drops of water do make a mighty ocean.

And for this, let’s take care of our health. Obviously, we cannot donate something unless that is in proper condition, so let’s vow to ourselves that when we donate , we’ll donate them in as perfect a condition as we can.  Because, as I said,  we all are ‘Organ Banks’. The more we care for ourselves, the more our organs can be of help to someone else, after we bid goodbye to the world.

To answer the question that might have popped up by now, no, I haven’t registered yet as an organ donor. But I will. That’s a promise to myself.
No, not for an eternal life. 
But to add my drop of happiness to someone who might need it. And for the immense joy of being able to give :)

I’ll add a piece of myself to someone to add peace to his or her life !
So, how about adding yours ?

Tuesday 12 August 2014


Haunted by the memory of the moment she left her cocoon, flapping her tiny wings, searching for nectar,  I wait for her, my doors wide open.
Please return to me , I pray.
My heart has what she needs.
Plenty of it.
Oh ! I just wish she sees it.

Picture Credit : The Moving Quill

Word count : 49
Linking this to the Fiction Challenge ‘From 15 to 50′ at Shailaja's The Moving Quill.

Thursday 7 August 2014

She !

She visits me when I least expect
Urging me out of my slumber
In varying shades, finely decked
Always a multiple in number

She does to me what none else can
Pulls me into a trance
Carried away, in a very short span
My mind begins the dance !

She flows out of my mind as thoughts,
Speaks to the world for me
While I wonder at her plots,
Searching for the key

She is the one who gives me wings
Makes me fly high
Because of her, my heart sings
When I touch the sky

She sends me waves of love and hope
Wraps me in her kisses
With all tough moments, she helps me cope
All doubts, she dismisses

She shows me light when darkness falls
Nudges me forward , to move
Tired  I might be, still she calls
I’ve my calling to prove

She feeds my soul with the soothing tonic
Brave, she makes me feel
Throws out all thoughts, demonic
Slowly I begin to heal

She fuels me with the desire to win
Stand high on the pedestal
With her around as my lovely fin,
My victory seems celestial

She flies to me from a world unknown
Takes a place in my heart
Forever there, she’ll reside on the throne
Till death does us apart

Who is she, you seem to ask,
Oh  ! In joy I beam !!
My friend, in whose glory I bask,
My sweet, lively dream !!


Monday 4 August 2014

The Footballer....

The big toe on his right foot had swollen to twice the normal size.
I looked at him with questioning eyes.
“We were playing Brazil last night. I got the ball for myself,”  my grandfather said , grinning childishly.
I couldn’t help smiling.
He had dreamt of , and played for his favourite football teams in his sleep.  Again !
I sighed and started massaging his toes slowly with his favourite balm.
“But this was worth it,” he said, as I finished.
“What ? This swelling ?”,  I asked.

“ Yes, I scored the winning goal”, he winked and chuckled, as I broke into a laughter.


# True Story :)

Sunday 3 August 2014

The Apology...

This post has been published by me as a part of the Blog-a-Ton 48; the forty-eighth edition of the online marathon of Bloggers; where we decide and we write. To be part of the next edition, visit and start following Blog-a-Ton.

“ I don’t want this to affect my career , you heard me ?”, I screamed into the phone.
“ Why don’t we discuss this at home,”  Saket tried reasoning with me.
“ Home or here doesn’t make a difference to me, Saket. I can’t go ahead with this. This is the time I’m getting noticed. My career is flourishing. I don’t want this now,” I spoke and hung up, the anger in my voice reaching a new peak.

I’d joined Modelopez  as a model three years back, immediately after getting married to Saket. He had encouraged me, made me confident enough to seek modeling assignments, and that was the time Modelopez were looking for fresh faces. I got the job with them, and since then I’d been working hard to prove myself in the industry. I’d received the ‘Fresh Face of the Year’ award last year from the International Advertisers’ Club, and this had brought in many overseas assignments too. My career graph as a sought-after model was up on the X-and-Y axes, and I had started earning well.

But then, this pregnancy.
Something we hadn’t planned for now. An absolute accident.

When I missed the day on the calendar, I blamed the hormones and stress . But two weeks and an episode of severe vomiting and fainting later, I was at the Gyneac’s, panic-stricken.
She had confirmed my fears. I’d be a mother soon. Without being prepared for it.

I had just relayed it to Saket, who had sounded happy.

No, I don’t want this now. Not when the Modelling Queen’s Tiara is waiting for me. This can wait. And wait, it will have to, I thought to myself, as I took an auto home.

“Mrs Sunayana, I would suggest going ahead with the pregnancy. Unless the pregnancy is harmful for either the mother or the child, we can’t abort the fetus. That’s the law. And in your case, your baby is developing healthily enough ,“  Dr Ameya said, as she examined my scan reports a month later.
Saket looked at me , expectations writ large on his face. I had discussed my intention with him, and he’d listened to me patiently before explaining why he wanted the baby, why he thought the baby was imperative for us now. I couldn’t blame him; I empathized with him,  but motherhood wasn’t for me. At least , not now.  Saket hadn’t spoken to me about it after that.
But arguing with Dr Ameya was futile, I knew.
“ We’ll think about it, and get back to you, Madam,” I said, my voice absolutely devoid of conviction.
As I left the hospital, I made a mental note to start consulting another doctor who would understand me. My need. My choice. My career.

I panic when I find myself in the dark. And there’s a sudden light. She comes to me, wobbling , as if she’s walking in the air. I can see she’s hairless, and her eyes are closed. She looks tiny, but grows larger as she approaches me.
I flinch for a moment, and squint my eyes, shielding them with my hand to block the light.
She moves towards me , slowly , her fingers trying to reach me. I try to run away, but stop short at the squeaky voice that starts speaking.
“See, my eyes. I was waiting for the day I can open them and see you, Ma. My fingers, see, I had tiny nails on them. Do you see my head ? I had a small brain inside that too. I loved you Ma. I loved Pa too. My heart had started beating, Ma. I was waiting to come out, Ma. What wrong did I do ? Why didn’t you want me, Ma ? You know Ma, when the long tube came in, I thought someone was tickling me. I wriggled , Ma. Did you know ? But it was all over too soon, Ma. I just got sucked into that . Why, Ma , why did you do this to me ? I could’ve lived, Ma. I could’ve been your princess. I could’ve played pinball with Pa. You never gave me  a chance, Ma. Why, why didn’t you…?"
She tries to touch me.
I scream and run, and she follows, her small fingers stretching out to reach me.

I woke up drenched in sweat, and sobbing hard.  My scream had woken up Saket, and he wrapped his arms around me as I sobbed into his chest, my nails digging deep into his shoulders.

Six months later, as Dr Ameya brought me the chubby little cherub I’d given birth to a short while ago, I could feel my eyes blurring with tears.
I took her in my arms, with all the love that existed within me, and a little more.
She was in deep slumber, and as I held her close to my bosom, I could feel her breath mingle with mine.

I would have almost lost her to a foolish, thoughtless decision of mine, but for that nightmare. The timely one.
True, I needed a career. But I needed a family too. I wouldn’t rejoin work for another year, and Modelopez were ready to grant me the leave. I had earned it, and they trusted my professionalism.

I looked at her again.
“I owe you this. Sorry, darling. Sorry. Sorry for that thought of mine. I'll always be around, for you. And we'll definitely play pinball with Pa, ” I said, as I kissed her forehead.
The baby scent bound my body in intoxicating waves of joy.

As I looked at her again, her lips twitched in what I thought was the most beautiful smile I’d ever seen in my life.

And I knew, my apology had been accepted.
Disclaimer : This is purely a work of fiction. Any similarity, with anyone living or dead, is coincidental. The opinions expressed in the story belong to only to the protagonist. Not even to the writer, that is. 

The fellow Blog-a-Tonics who took part in this Blog-a-Ton and links to their respective posts can be checked here. To be part of the next edition, visit and start following Blog-a-Ton. Participation Count: 05

Thursday 31 July 2014

Of fear and freedom...

Write Tribe

He seems to lurk in the darkness around
Making us shiver in silence
Though we keep him strictly drowned
At times he defeats our pretense

We call him fear, of the senses,
Of  soul, self, life and what not
Of failure, success and offenses,
Everywhere he has his slot !

Being afraid never ever works,
Just leaving  our hearts to bleed
Only if we uproot  the fear that lurks
Deep inside, we’ll succeed

Fear to try, keeps success at bay
You’re forced to keep your hood low
Fear to love keeps life away
Just the monotonous flow !

Here comes our time to marvel
At an idea that’s a difficult trade
What would our thoughts unravel
Only if we weren’t afraid ?

If fear was nowhere in my heart
And I wasn’t afraid at all
I’d pat my back for being smart
For never being anyone’s doll

I’d rewind the days I’ve lived so long
And find out the times gone wrong
I’d send my mistakes to where they belong
Embracing my life with a fresh song

I’d go back to days of struggle and pain
Show them that life’s such a treasure
And  tell them, I love them for the gain
They’ve bestowed on me with pleasure

I’d sing my soul out , letting my voice
Choose its own streams to flow
Happiness in life, is my own choice
No matter how the winds blow

Till my feet ache, I’d dance and dance,
Great heights beckoning me,
Sweet rhythms sending me into a trance,
Of all bondages, I’d break free

Out will come the words I’ve eaten
For the fear of hatred and rejection
Them, I’ll no more bother to sweeten
Out I’ll throw the dejection

I’d live a life, my very own ways
Live it with purpose and in style
The absence of fear would always amaze
But make every moment worthwhile !

Here I take the steps as a baby,
To bid goodbye to my fear
I’d face a fall en route, may be
But never shall I shed a tear

One of these days I’ll come out
Of the cocoon of anxiety , diffidence
Alive in my eyes would be a new sprout
Of strong and fearless confidence !

So, did you hear ?
About the Write Tribe Blog Carnival, I mean ?
It's been kicked off with a post on Everyday Gyaan, Corinne's lovely blog :)
Thank you, Corinne, for the wonderful prompt :)

And this is what I wrote :)
Some parts of the poem are tweaked facts :). Creative liberty, you see . I guess I'm allowed to :) :) . ( Like the shyness, diffidence and all that. I'm anything but shy :P)
Hope you enjoy :)

Tuesday 8 July 2014


She counted the notes in her hand once again.
Rupees 450.
“We don't do it for anything less than 500, woman,” he had said. “And in your case, only if you return before 4 this evening. Can’t wait any longer,” he had added.
That means , at least 50 Rupees more, she thought.

And perhaps a little extra . One could never be sure. And she couldn't take a chance with less money at hand .
 Not now, anyway.

She counted the notes again, and bundled them neatly to the end of her pallu. She turned back to look at the five-year old who had been playing with her doll, under the shade of the tree by the sidewalk.
She had fallen asleep, the doll clasped tight to her bosom.

Poor thing, she must be hungry, she felt sad . The little one had had just a couple of bananas since that morning, and it was half past two already.

If only I could sell these  off quick, she thought, looking at her basket of woollen dolls , which her daughter loved knitting.

Dolls in pairs. The bride and her groom. 
Dressed in  a fabric of creamy yellow with golden laces and a red turban , the dulha dolls matched the beauty of the dulhans in their red and green frilled lehengas, made of crisp shiny cloth.

Four out of the thirteen pairs that she had brought for sale that day remained in the basket.

Thirteen. She cringed at the thought of the number. She wondered why people called it unlucky.

Her daughter always made thirteen pairs.
Yellow and brown . Red and green. Pink and purple. Orange and Blue. In all weird combinations of colours she could imagine.
The whole basket would be a riot of colours when she finished. She would then pair the dulha with his dulhan, and sew their hands together.
An unbreakable bond, she would chuckle.

These woollen dolls that her daughter made had fed them their bread and butter for a long time now; ever since her husband's death . She sold them on the streets, at exhibitions, at the bus stations, near the museums, at the amusement parks - wherever she could find a kind soul who could part with a little money for her work. Usually, they were sold out by the evening. On days when she found it difficult to get customers, she went beyond her comfort zones and ventured into new areas to find a market.
And they pulled on with life.

She looked at the dolls again.
Eyes, nose and ears painted on the wool with a sharp brush and beads glued on to them neatly.
Her waist-length hair , made of thick black wool, braided to perfection.
The red turban conferring the much needed royal look on him.
Such skill !
She smiled at the thought of her daughter's talent.

Doll making was her catharsis. One that made her forget the pain of the love that had betrayed her trust and gone away,  after seeding her womb with a new life in a moment of lust.
The very same life, that was sleeping now under the tree.

She looked again at the sleeping child and tears filled her dry eyes, threatening to flow out with a rapidity she was afraid she wouldn't be able to control.

Poor kid. All of five years, and devoid of love so soon. If only....

" How much for these dolls, amma ?"

She turned to look at the face of an elderly gentleman, kneeling down beside her and examining the dolls with interest.

" Rupees Fifty a pair," she said, her hopes rising.

" Oh... pack three of them , please", he said.

" My grandchildren will love these, " he paid her with a smile as she handed over the polythene cover with the dolls to him.

She now had Rs 600. A little more than what she needed. She could leave now.
Packing the remaining pair in her shoulder bag, she got up and moved towards the little child to wake her up.

They had a long way to go.

" Do you make these yourself, amma?"

She stopped and turned back. The gentleman had returned.

" My daughter made them," she said. " Her mother", she added after a second, gesturing towards the sleeping child.

"Oh... they're just so beautiful. I was just wondering, you had one more pair, aren't you selling that ? ", he asked.

She paused before answering. Should she sell it too ? She would get more money, but no, she didn't need that now.

"No, sir. That's for her. That is all that she has," she said, looking at her granddaughter again.

"Arey, your daughter can make more for her, na", he said, but smiled kindly at the kid who had begun to stir out of her sleep.

She just smiled faintly to this and turned to walk.

" You seem to be in a hurry. Can you do one thing ? Here's my card. Can you just let me know when you have fifty such pairs  ? I want them to gift the children at the Orphanage I'm a patron of", he said, giving her a card.

She looked at him for a moment, and at the card.

" No sir. I'm sorry. I don't think I can. Those dolls were the last of the batch ", she said, lowering her eyes, her  voice curt and steely and turned to walk  under the red hot sun, her hand  tightly wrapped around her granddaughter's wrist.

No more time to explain.

The tears that had threatened her before a few minutes escaped the confines of her eyes and cascaded down .
She lifted her face , chin up , the heat of the sun falling directly on her cheeks.
She wanted the tears to dry soon. Lest the child should ask her the whys and why nots.

She couldn't afford to lose any more time. She had to reach the man before his demand for money went up. And before he could put a finger on the time he had allotted.

Her daughter was waiting for her to return with the money as promised.

She walked, her back bent, her frail shoulders aching , hoping that she was in time for the burial of her daughter's body at the public graveyard.
Image courtesy - Google Images

Tuesday 1 July 2014

Bonded by....

Every time I see you, I imagine that happening.

I yearn to feel it on me !

The small trickle of happiness inside me soon erupts into a beautiful fountain, with a musical rhythm.

Oh !  The warmth it fills me with !!

I look at you furtively , expecting you to see the longing in my eyes........

How beautiful would the feeling be !

I’m sure, you’ll enjoy it as much as I do.

We’ll be filled with love, joy and fulfillment ; such is the power of the best of nature’s gifts !

Difficult , did  you say ?


It’s not hard to smile,  is it ?



Back to the blog after a silence of almost three weeks :)

Day 1 at the UBC.

Sunday 8 June 2014

The Judgement...

This post has been published by me as a part of the Blog-a-Ton 47; the forty-seventh edition of the online marathon of Bloggers; where we decide and we write. To be part of the next edition, visit and start following Blog-a-Ton.

It’s 2 A.M, and I’m sitting here, writing this.
I know my time is running out, and I need to write this soon, before the dawn breaks.
Before beginning my journey, that is.

As my pen flows on this paper, I know I have no future to dream of. Absolutely.
I’ve known it for a long time now.
Not everyone gets to know that beforehand, I know.

There’s nothing that I need to be afraid of, really.
Still, I fear ridicule and rejection, more than ever.
I’m a lonely soul ; I don’t interact much with my neighbours.
I’m afraid of their questions.
“What did you do to bring this upon yourself?”, their gaze seems to ask.
I don’t want to answer them.
I’m happy to have answered my conscience, so I shy away from them, and their raised eyebrows. 

So, it was almost like a fresh raindrop on the dry, arid earth when I learnt that the place where I live has a beautiful library housing the best of the books in many languages.
Needless to say, that has been my paradise for the past few months.
You might ask me why I wanted to drown myself in books, when could foresee no future for myself. Valid question, indeed.
My answer is that, even if there wasn’t a foreseeable future, I had to live through the present, hadn’t I ?
Those wonderful books helped me do that.
Through them , I saw the world beyond the horizons of my thoughts. I read of the pain that people suffered, I saw life as they saw it.
I laughed, cried, sang and danced with them. I laughed to their jokes. When I slept, they gave me company in my dreams.
And helped me sail through my life, the aimless drift that it was.

In all their calm existence, they carry a voice. The voice of silence. And that silence must be heard.

I heard them tell me that I should put this in writing before  I embark on the journey.

A story.

A thirteen year old girl . Physically challenged.
She can’t speak; her vocal cords have been dysfunctional since birth.
She can move only her upper torso, and has been confined to the wheel chair since she was four.
She reads a lot, trying to build her world with the words that dance before her eyes.
To her, her widowed mother is the world. And of course, her brother, who’s elder to her by four years , in whose care her mother leaves her , when she goes for work as a home nurse,  every morning.
She spends her time, reading, painting , and listening to the radio from where she gathers most of her knowledge.
The evening hours of lessons with her mother are her greatest bliss. Because she loves learning.
And her mother speaks to her silence in a way none else can.

One evening, her mother returns to a silent, deserted home, to see her unconscious.
Her blouse torn open, revealing the budding blossoms of womanhood inside, the mark of teeth evident against the fair skin on her chest.
Her lips wounded ; scratches on the body, indicating conflict.
And blood trickling down ,from between her weak legs dangling helplessly down the wheel chair, and forming a puddle on the white floor beneath.

Shocked, her mother tries to wake her up, while trying to process the images mentally , and praying that the worst hasn’t happened.

When she gains consciousness, she hugs her mother and keeps still,  tears streaming down her closed eyes.
Her mother’s questions don’t get an answer.
She stares at the nothingness in front of her in silence.

But her mother understands.
She knows every inch of her daughter, and she knows that her  silence must be heard, must be read deep into.
And that it carries meanings, perhaps those that she’d never wish to be true.
Another look at her face confirms her fears.

Later that evening, when her son returns home, she confronts him.
Questions him about his sister. About what has happened to her.

In an inebriated state of mind, he admits to having raped her.

“What’s she useful for, anyway? I just had some fun,“ he says, numbing her senses.

The words her son has just mouthed throw her into a fit of rage, and it is a matter of few minutes before she finds a knife that she inserts deep into his stomach , taking away the very life she bestowed him with.
The scream that’s born in his throat dies on his lips, as his eyes widen in the horror of the realization.

She’s seen the trust shatter.
Her own womb betraying its kin.
Lust overpowering love.
And motherhood holds greater meaning to her now.

The next morning, when the law arrives, she admits to the murder.
The last private conversation that she has with her daughter, before the nuns from the convent take her to their orphanage, is a promise, that the truth would remain silent.

She’s satisfied  that she answered her conscience . She doesn’t seek protection from the law.
She’s just a mother who killed her son , probably because he found out about her secret affair - that’s the society’s version of her story.
She doesn’t worry that she’s been awarded the gallows.
She knows her daughter is now safe, at the new home.

She’s happy that she could read through her daughter’s silence.
That she didn’t leave it unseen.
And this is the message that she leaves behind, that every single silent tear is important.
That silence, must always, be heard.

Do you think the mother wasn’t justified in her deeds ?

Even if you do, I don’t think so.

That’s why I killed my son the moment I knew he had seen my daughter as a fruit to feed his lust.

That’s why I look forward to the noose that’s awaiting me , as the dawn breaks.

I made sure her silence had been heard, in the way I could.

Tell me, am I wrong ?
The fellow Blog-a-Tonics who took part in this Blog-a-Ton and links to their respective posts can be checked here. To be part of the next edition, visit and start following Blog-a-Ton. Participation Count: 04