My mother was silent when
I told her about the pregnant woman
whose water broke while she was walking
behind her husband, barefoot, the end of her sari
clenched by her teeth, still walking.
She gave birth on the road, her blood with the sun
above, unable to look up, almost the end.
A baby girl in the open. A baby girl in lockdown.

The mother rested for an hour and a half,
then continued still. Her baby wrapped in a cloth,
with her husband now. With blood stains on her sari,
she walked ahead. And along with her were so many
women- faces covered with the loose end of their sari,
walking towards home, in a country
without borders, filled with terror.

Perhaps it is the shared pain my mother
felt with the woman of the road;
her body drooping, her labour unaccounted for –
both nameless bodies of existence, both silent,
locked inside, or walking towards a home –
far away from a place that would leave her alone.

(This poem is inspired from the accounts of several unnamed, pregnant, migrant women in India who gave birth on the road they were crossing by foot, ever since the nationwide lockdown began in April.)

Share this article on:

Share on facebook
Share on twitter
Share on linkedin
Did you like what you read? Let us know in the comment section below:

Leave your email to stay connected

We don’t spam! Read our privacy policy for more info.

Related Articles:

Between the heat of the July day and Jamie’s non-stop moaning things were beginning to be a little hard to bear. As we drove
A new place I go to, Meeting so many kids like me. Same kind of pillows and beds, “Something wrong with me” every innocent
Why? Is the world so cruel and indecisive? It will miss me when I am gone. But now, that I am alive It reminds
Once we fell into the deepest troubles, We were rudderless, Spiritless, Lifeless. Then there came a nietzschean ‘Superman ‘ All powerful, Vigorous, Indomitable, Cheerful
I read somewhere, that laughter is the cure, for all ailments , yet I was unsure. Because, you see? The saddest people around me
In October 2011, Delhi University turned into a melting pot of debate over one of the most celebrated essays of A.K. Ramanujan ‘Three Hundred
So dry your tears, Clear your sight, Catch every opportunity With all your might With all your might Because you only live once, And cost of life isn’t free! Believe it’s
Majid is four and a half year old. At this age he is a devoted fan of his father’s talent. Today his fascination has
PART I PREOCCUPATION WITH CHORES I am a poet of the daily chores delicately balanced on the beams of is and what was. Etching
I am sure, I am correct for I saw it through my own brown eyes How can I be wrong? for I pinched myself

We would love to hear from you.

Please provide your valuable feedback.