Two mothers on the train
I don't know why I am writing, only that I am,
“Just be happy and you’ll be happy”, they say, what a sham.
Putting away my phone, as the train shuffles and the trees bid goodbye,
I find my gaze wandering, making up stories for each passerby.
“Chaos will ensue, from this idea you must eschew”, prompts my inner naysayer,
While I add foibles to my actors, layer by layer, I utter a small prayer.
“Let them know happiness, let them all know joy”, I plead and beg,
The echoes of silence greet me, browbeat me, unseat me, to show my voice has nary a leg.
No leg to carry my rambling across the light-years that separate God and me,
Engendering a deep resentment towards my impotence to set them free.
I smile at the lucent pregnant woman having a boy — the playwright had cast her unborn child so,
My plans for his life overflow, falling in rapid succession like domino after domino,
I want to shield him from this cruel world, I almost don’t want him to be born.
I want him to stay in the warmth of the womb, from which he will so inevitably be shorn.
“I cannot protect you, dear child”, I bemoan, as my eyes brim with tears,
I cannot be his aide, his angel, his ally, as the world pierces and prods his worst fears.
I have to forsake him, for I cannot pick favorites in my own play,
I shout in the deserted hallway and wait to be heard, should come the day.
I belabor God’s stoic silence, His inaction, His laziness, though I understand,
Calling it cosmic non-interference in sorrow and joy, a wave of His Divine Hand.
I let my thoughts lap at me as my stop approaches, I have to abandon him.
I am his Mother, for he was born of my imagination, of my whim.
As I depart the train, I pooh-pooh my heart for loving only to leave behind,
I bereave the loss of my son who does not exist yet, but with whom my life has become intertwined.
By Abhi Shankar
