Folding the sheets, pillow cases,
without creases, starching the handwoven
sarees, take my life out.
I recall the days when I slogged
the whole day caring the children,
running in directions tirelessly.
Of recent, even a slight exertion causes
an exhaustion. I heave hard like
an old puffing train run on steam,
Perspiring profuse, I hear a feeble
whistle from my nostrils akin to the
rickety old train’s blowing.
I, like the train, slow down
when I am about to reach
the destination at 9 in the night
the day draws to a close ,
smoke and steam diffuse, My eyes
close as slumber overwhelms.
Meenas Poems 