Maternal Instinct...

Are women really masochistic, I wonder…?
Why do they subject themselves to torture?
After having had one to carry on the race,
Or it might become extinct and be effaced.

Labour pains, risk to life, somehow don’t deter
A woman from doing it again to be a mother.
A friend, baffled asked a pertinent question,
Why the whole burden of nurture and creation

Was put on one sex…I draw my own conclusion,
As there can be no other answer and solution.
God knew men couldn’t endure excruciating pain
And rise above self, so thus he ordained…

Women, with some exceptions, want to be mothers…
Go for more than one, so siblings can support each other.
As He gave all of us the gift of selective memory,
The moment she holds the baby she forgets the drudgery.

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poem by Mamta Agarwal
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Nostalgia

I moved to Delhi in Nineteen Seventy Four
and lived on a ‘barsati ’ floor.
It was safe then to sleep on a summer’s night
on the terrace under the stars and moonlight.

Alas, not anymore!
You have to lock every door,
to keep out the danger that looms
outside your air cooled rooms.

Isn’t it a pity
what life has come to in a city?
No longer can you enjoy
sleeping on a ‘charpoy in the courtyard, balcony or terrace,
because of the rising terrorist menace.

I miss those evenings when after sunset,
we would sprinkle water on the brick floor till it was wet,
getting relief from heat
walking on it bare feet.

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poem by Mamta Agarwal
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Reverence for Life

60’s were a good time to grow
The pace of life was slow.

There were simple pleasures
And lots of leisure.

Cousins and friends
Loads of fun, camaraderie all weekends.

You could play in the parks
Without fear until dark.

You went home when you were called for dinner
And the whole family ate it together.

Young and old had company
There was respect and harmony.

School, cinema halls, in fact every place
Was just walking distance.

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poem by Mamta Agarwal
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Conspicuous by its Absence

While tending to the garden one balmy November,
Helping my mother wash the leaves of the dust,
And gently cut off the dead branches and flowers,
Spraying the ones still seeming bright and robust…

She picked some reeds lying by her side,
Puzzled, I asked what are these for mother.
They are for the infants of the garden my child,
They need support to grow and are called climbers.

Sweet pea is one garden flower of such a family,
So I am going to use these reeds to make a trellis.
By January, despite chill the flowers will be smiling gaily,
Soft hues, translucent, capricious and sweet scented...

They are really my favourite as they have no flamboyance,
Growing them is like meditation and needs a lot of patience.
Now, in gardens, they are conspicuous by their absence,
Perhaps because we like things with zero maintenance...

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poem by Mamta Agarwal
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A Treasure of Memories

At will, I dig into that treasure of memories
Built at home till my early twenties…
Cycling to school at eight in the dense fog,
Wearing a short skirt and a maroon knitted top.

I guess all the exercise warmed me up,
Wore no stockings, scarf, cap or gloves.
Bare headed, hair flying in the air
We raced with gusto, had no care.

Rushed home and hurriedly ate snacks,
With the school bag still on my back.
Before I knew, my friends would call,
And I would run out to play basket ball.

Wildly chase each other and plot and scheme,
Daring the boys to play with an all girls team.
In summer vacations, we were up on the trees,
Neighbours would call us a bunch of monkeys.

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poem by Mamta Agarwal
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Joys Of Childhood

A four year old I find
Has a very clear mind.
She knows she likes Pogo
More than the Lego.

For pink strawberry ice-cream,
She will kiss you and scream,
While she licks with sheer delight
Till she finishes the last bite.

When her mom asks her to draw
She runs away defiantly saying no.
And asks why don’t you let me play
It’s a holiday today.

She handles a T.V remote,
Like a pro
If you ask her whom do you love more?
She’ll promptly say everyone, running out of the door.

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poem by Mamta Agarwal
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I wonder who was this guy...! ! ! ! !

I wonder why…
Am I denied
A ride on the swing.

I wonder why…
Am I deprived
Of Colours in my life.

I wonder why…
My bangles were broken
And my bindi wiped…

I wonder why…
On my birth, my parents
Cursed their fate.

I wonder why…
Why am I alive
If all wait for me to die.

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poem by Mamta Agarwal
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A Night of Grace

Evening casts early shadows in December.
As dusk falls heart is filled with longing,
I have an appointment, I suddenly remember…
Quickly I put on my coat and stockings.

Stepping out gingerly in the still and chilly night
To meet my celestial kin, for an animated conversation…
Soon, my face is bathed with full Moon’s silver light
And the sky, colour of grey pearl fills me with exaltation…

A light breeze comes carrying a heady fragrance,
I spot Raat ki Raani with its pale green flowers,
Presiding with its crowning glory, emitting its essence
Intoxicated, I slowdown my pace and linger for an hour…

Smiling to myself, of my own volition I return home,
Wistfully selecting logs to put in the fireplace,
Extend my arms to warm my hands, now numb with cold
Stealthily, you come and hold me in a warm embrace….

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poem by Mamta Agarwal
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Walking hand in hand into Sunset! ! ! !

A little bent and unsteady on her feet,
A silver haired lady slipped into her seat.
Her companion helped and looked at her face
They exchanged an animated, mischievous glance…

they had come to their favourite restuarant to dine.
An ice bucket held a bottle of champagne and red wine.
Enjoy the evening, captain bowed and moved away.
Shall we order your favourite steak, what do you say?

Settled, they waved to the crowd… just then the band
Began to play an old number… they seemed glad
A memorable song…, he asked her shall we dance?
She hesitated and said mockingly, what at my age…

I watched wistfully from the corner of my eyes.
Then the man got up, today, I would like to buy
Drinks for everyone, our children are away,
We want to celebrate with ones here today.

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poem by Mamta Agarwal
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The Last Journey

I sat on my haunches, dry eyed
as she motionless and rigid lied
On the cemented, grey floor
near the old decrepit door.

All near and dear ones
were crying in muffled tones.
She lay oblivious to it and the rain
her face serene and erased of all pain.

She had to be dressed in accordance with custom
Like a bride
as she had died
a ‘sobhagavati’.

Her clothes had to be cut off from her stiff, cold body
in front of everybody.
She lay exposed, shriveled
unmindful of the indignity,
In contrast to the dignity

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poem by Mamta Agarwal
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