my mother speaks to herself
as if in a reverie.
I go past her, careful in movements,
drag a chair close to her, knowing
I can listen to an historical event.
Mom often goes back,
These moments throw a variety
of experiences happy and sad.
The rich culture of India, a sponge
absorbed the British ways, has become
a worthy nothing.
“The whites”, her term for British
came as traders, laid the bait
and we, like fish, got trapped.
Education saw a transformation.
The Whites taught us servitude
and many of us succumbed to their vile.
The schools where teaching was in
mother tongue,turned unpopular.
English became the language of learning.
Ransack of wealth was done with ease
the Kohinoor diamond, and many more
flew to Britain, she quips.
Thousands of men and women
were bundled, shipped, like cargo
to destinations unknown.
Tears stream, choking, she continues.
with anger and grief. I am unable to find
which overlaps the other.
Leaving her at this juncture
I pace with anguish. Pause
for a while. Turn to see mom.
She is lost.
Meenas Poems 