Her forehead bare,
her hands disbangled,
she’s wrapped in a white saree.
The winkless eyes, with dark half
moons below, looking questioningly
at the everlasting smile of
the soldier in lamnation, lamenting his demise;
laying in the bed of their conjugal love.
A sea of despair brimming in
her eyes trickling down to the pillow.
Sweet reminiscences lingering in
her weak heart making it weaker,
intermittently missing a beat.
Cyclonic winds of distress roaring
behind her tranquil eyes; her heart
longing to tell her untold stories
of their sunny days.But…
the stories… only shed down
from her eyes untold. Her two kids!
one sucking milk at her milkless
sagged breasts. The other at the
kindergarten being questioned,
“where’s your dad?”
And the wild world outside,
too perilous for her to
struggle with, with the only confidence
of her feminine courage.
And a paltry sum of amount,
a month, being her bread.
The other day the nation
honoured her PARAMAVEERACHAKRA,
that will barb her every minute
with the grim memories of war.
Battle field killed her “half”
to cast her into the battle of life.
Now, he stands grandly as a
helmet-headed gun on his tomb.
Silent sighs, breadless days,
sleepless nights, strange emptiness at home,
continual fear, humiliation of
the widowhood-the frequent uninvited guests hereafter.