Click here for shortcuts to regional language blogs and city-specific events.
Purged out of the womb, choked on paddy husk , poisoned with sap of the cactus or simply buried alive. Even today in some parts of modern India, the bosom of a mother it seems, nurtures only her son and is parched with nothing to offer but regret for her baby girl.
Today, as a woman, when I celebrate the memory of my mother as a daughter and revel in the brave new spirit of liberation along with my daughter, I instinctively feel the currents of support that flow between us unmindful of the generational gaps.Why then would a mother kill the biggest source of her emotional support, her daughter?
This is a conscience call to all women, many educated yet ignorant, who commit the blunder of weeding their female off springs, in a cowardly act of surrender to warped dictates.
After all to be a mother is not for the weak and nor is Motherhood ever for the faint hearted.
Echoes from the Womb
What are little girl's lives made of?
Not sugar, nor spice
Nothing quite so nice.
In the snug darkness of your womb,
When you stealthily sensed my presence,
You tore me out in haste,
Long before my term
And snuffed out my little life
As if I was a worm.
Elsewhere... in some nameless village,
On a hot and dusty morn,
I announce with a lusty cry,
'Mother I am Born'
But you sing a dirge to me,
With tears my body you soak,
You feed me husk with milk
And dig my grave as I choke.
Did you never yearn my mother?
To feel my soft curls in your arms
Or press gently against my cheeks
As you fall to their dimpled charms?
Or kiss my little hands,
That hug you so tight in sleep
Or bless my grateful heart
That loves you ever so deep!
Mother, I am your flesh and blood, not regret,
No mirage you choose to forget,
Grant me a life; I am your daughter,
Not a blunder in your quest for my brother!
Asha Susan Mathew