A Child Widowed at Eight
As I crossed
The threshold
Of my new home,
As a bride
My eyes fell
On a woman draped
In white…
Standing against
The sunlight,
Highlighting
Deep furrows
On her brow…
I felt embarrassed,
And overdressed.
Later asked my spouse,
'Who is that woman,
Why didn’t she take
Part in the celebrations? '
'She is my aunt,
She is widowed,
Was a child, merely eight
When she lost her mate,
Ever since she has been
Ostracised,
Portent of bad omen...
But she is the only woman
I have known as a mother,
She nurtured
And told us stories
We grew up on laughter…'
Condemned
To life sentence…
Did anyone ask
How it felt
Yes, at eight…
Did she feel bereft?
Did she understand
Why her head had been shaved,
Colourful bangles pulled out of her hand,
Light, colours, laughter banned?
I could see,
The child
In her
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poem by Mamta Agarwal
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