I make mosambi juice
for my baby, a must for
him at 11 in the morning.
Sterilize the feeding bottle
pour the juice, wait for him
to wake up.
He is not fussy as all that,
but gets up with a loud cry
enough to bring the roof down.
The clock joins with him
as it strikes eleven times,
with a great sound.
The little one drinks,
burps with a smile,
engages in baby talk.
As I rise to get the bottle
cleaned, my in – law walks i.
She remarks
“Bhagavathi’s child does not drink juice.
His skin is smooth and shining”.
Bhagavathi being the maid.
Both, Bhagavathi and I, are hurt,
the one for feeding, the other ruing
her inability to feed.
Meenas Poems 