Inheritance

Is that the hallowed barn
where Mary cradled Christ by morn?

Or a prison vault, weather worn

where Devaki’s Krishna was born?

Maybe. Maybe not.

But that steadfast juggernaut

trudging up stairs so austere-

certainly, that is you-Mother dear!

Mounting ill cut pathways

over unnumbered ages.

As Diti and Aditi; Devaki and Kunti,

as Yashoda and Mary; Kaikeyi and Gandhari.

As Sita and Khayadu; as Ganga and Panna.

As a multitude of unsung faces and aliases.

Unchanging abyss, yet diverse shrouds

of mettle and calm with love endowed.

Tireless, thankless oft-times you resurge

from a barren to a bountiful place.

Or probably you did a magic forge

mutating pockmarked boulders

and dry waning creeks

to green, singing boulevards

embraced in Love’s mystique.

Yes. That’s you, mother.

Delight and devotion on an immortal face,

arms spread out in a solicitous gather

as the halo spreads across Time and Space.

Those fatigues astutely camouflage

bruises and scars on the samuranis personage.

Flowers in place of guns-

you redefined the way wars must be won.  

And thus at times, my world angles upside down

dangling at weak ankles, giddy and desolate.

Unkindly hauled by the hands of hardy Fate

disguised as an Au Pair, vile with a venomous frown.

In a jerky flash, my mind recalls

your saga of strengths and dogging resolves.

Suddenly I’m on my feet again;

fighting, carrying on your eternal campaign!