IN HONOR OF MOTHER'S DAY. . .
I saw the 2015 Hindi movie "Piku" yesterday, which is a heart-warming, quirky comedy about the relationship between an aging, cantankerous father and his young daughter, living in a cosmopolitan city, dealing with each other's conflicting ideologies while being fully aware that they are each other's only emotional support. If you are looking to be a part of an endearing journey of a father and daughter, do watch this movie at the very earliest. If you are looking for made-up actors in bejeweled designers' dresses, over-the-top acting, actors bursting in a song-and-dance sequence at the drop of a hat, this movie is not for you. This is a special, special film and it inspired me to pen the following poem:
How about a little applause? She asked the velvety green of the grass as she ran as if challenging the wind. Event though my pain is my own story. Even though caring for Ma is my own burden to bear. To rouse her in the morning Prop her up on the pillows Feed her the mushy beans and potatoes; the texture familiar, yet distant like that of baby food. Clean the tiny dribble on the side of her mouth. Empty the bed pan, Ewwwww. . . Wasn't that something I thought I had forever left behind after I'd raised my own two kids from birth to coming-of-age? Make her comfortable between the bouts of pain that pulse in the bones of her aged face Read to her if I have a moment to spare. If not, put on the TV and switch the satellite channel to a Bollywood soap opera How is it my sole cross to bear when Ma has two sons? she asks the solitude of the forest as she runs. The two sons she prayed the Sun God to deliver to her. Who'd look after her in her old age? Sustain her limbs with their manly vigor. Where are they now, Ma? Huddled in the cozy corners of their wives' starry blue saris, muddled by the daunting red dot on their wives' foreheads that stop them from coming to your aid. Aaaah. . .So it is my own pain because my brothers are useless Don't you get it, Ma? Finally, it's the girl child you didn't want. . .The one you would have happily aborted, but for some Hindu mumbo-jumbo, some religious taboo or fear. Who turned out to be your rescuer? A little applause sounds good. . .A lot of applause sounds even better. My love for you, and my pain of how little it was acknowledged may be my own story It maybe singular, but it will be known to you. So that by the end, you will think, no, you will understand. That it was all the time words that you, yourself. Out of your heart Had been saying The four little words that I would die to hear. "Thank you, my daughter"