”What is this life , if full of care ,
No time to stand and stare.”
These lines are an exact depiction of the years , when my children were around.
I was up at 6 in the morning, taking one child to the bath, waking up another and stroking another gently.
The eldest was a real imp. I had to coax , cajole and finally shout at him to do the morning chores. He would push his books and exercise notebooks into his school bag, gobble his breakfast, drink his cup of milk in one big gulp, and rush to the gate.
I slipped into my couch, it was not to be long, my second one was up in his arms. Ma , he shouted “it is getting late”. I rushed to the bath, tucking , my sari, gave him a hurried cleansing. He was a determined , diligent child, but at the same time very stubborn. He took his own sweet time . to break his fast.,and refused to take his milk. I forcibly poured the milk down his throat. But before he could wipe his mouth, his school bus was honking and the driver was calling out. He made a mad dash.
I waved and leaned on my gate, when the little one slithered near me, with a mischievous grin. I took him in my arms, smothering him with kisses.He babbled something unfamiliar, and gave a doting look. I slowly prepared him for his morning sojourn at play school.He cried hoarsely ,and the play school was jolted by his shout,when I dropped him.
Today, unusually all these anecdotes cross my mind
My children have flown away,have taken wings.
My house is a ghost of what it was.There is no noise,no activities,no movement.It is silent, sober, and sullen.
I go to my first son’s bedroom,look at the photographs on the wall,he posing as captain of his college Tennis team. Drying my moist eyes, I enter my second son’s room.The cups and shields,displayed bring back nostalgic memories of his prowess as a most competitive student. Controlling my tears, I step into my little one’s . A grand decor greets me. His eye for art, his choice of furniture, his study desk with his portraits,and a small library talk volumes of his qualities. I burst out, I cry uncontrollably..
I rush to my own bedroom,I sob, I whimper a fondling hand embraces me,that of my husband.
I pour out my feelings, but my husband is a silent participator- in both joy and in solitude,
That makes a difference.