The rapist’s mother be not blamed
for the dreams she saw of her son
ascending the throne,
Not her guile if she has allowed him to suckle
that last drop of her milk mingling with blood,
Not her choice to seek an heir
at the altar of the male God in the armour of gold.
She has fed and bathed him in words
weaned from the hunger of her empty belly,
Not her fault if she is victorious
in the first battle bringing forth a hundred sons,
Not her choice if she has deaf ears
to the whole village on her Kanhaiyya’s pranks
at the bathing ghat for women.
The rapist’s mother sleeps uninterrupted,
a prayer on her lips, drawing an amulet
around her absconding son, her soot-stained hands
have stroked his ego whipped to a peak.
She weaves an alibi and knocks at the doors
of justice for the wronged son. At midnight,
she would bless him with immortality.
Unknowing, on the first day of her widowhood
she would be cast away.
Madras Courier originally ran as a broadsheet with a poetry section. It was a time when readers felt comfortable sharing glimpses of their lives through verse. If you have a poem you’d like to submit, do email us at [email protected].
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