Her mother still cooks for her
Under the dim glare of the yellow light bulb
Making flickering patterns on the peeling ceiling 
This is the only normal left
Her mother bent over the very old stove
Used match stick in one hand
Blowing smoke into her face
Tears mixing with soot
Sometimes, she thinks they are real tears; the daughter 
As she watches from the narrow kitchen door
Maybe this is the only time her mother can cry
Real tears without shame, without fear of questions 
This is exactly what she doesn’t want to be
This disappearing thing that makes watery soup
On hot afternoons, flies buzzing around her 
She, never trying to shoo them away

She tries not to think that she is all that is left
Her Mother’s only reason to be
Every night, when the daughter talks to God 
Knees down at the foot of the shaky bed
She asks that he never let her become her mother
Even though she feels guilty, she never unsays it.

You want nothing more
Than to be a good mom
To see me succeed
To see me happy
To have me love you

But you’re not
We’re so far past that now
You can’t make up for your mistakes
I can’t thank you for an existence I don’t want

I love you
But you’re not a good mom
You’re just my mother

cry to be heard.
shout to be silent.

LORD, do not ignore this quiet cry,
this spittle-bubble cry to you.
In my weakness, in my tiredness, from my empty well,
I pour out what little I have toward you.

My murmur is soaked up as it hits the ground,
my words evaporate before they are fully formed,
but before my knees hit the ground
you reach down and hold me.

You smile at my clumsy song,
you reach out and lift me
and with gentle patience you pour your warm milk into my emptiness
and you fill me with your loving kindness.

As I drink in your shadow, as I fill my belly, I find strength and I rise
like a new born calf, like a foal still finding her feet
I stand unsteady, but with my eyes fastened onto you,

I follow you into green pasture,
I walk in your wake and after each few steps you wait
and I see a mother’s pleasure in your eyes on me.

The LORD is a patient mother
the LORD offers the milk of loving kindness to her young
and walks with them into fresh pasture.

To my teacher Mom
To my savior Mom
To my kind Mom
To my trouble shooter Mom
To my simple Mom
To my generous Mom
Wish I were like you Mom!!

To the Mom who has been judged for living a simple life.
To the Mom who never tried to hurt anyone because she knew how it feels like.

To the Mom who thinks herself to be a superwoman and filled our plates with almost all the food from the dishes she had,
Keeping a little, what she called a balanced diet.

To the Mom who has the innate ability to filter out the demeaning words and rather enjoyed what she cherishes.

To the Mom who still believes "Silence is Golden"
And did her job religiously with love whatever be the condition.

But....
I couldn't be like you Mom and been a little outspoken as I have seen your helplessness for long....
And now.....
.......
I wish you were a bit like me Mom!!


Bina Mukherjee