|   Sep 13, 2016

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 

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