#HappyMothersDay

Connect. Read. Share. Comment. 

Twitter - @prateekmathur03

Facebook - Writers' Block

Instagram - WritefullyYours

The Prose - WritefullyYours

Google Plus - +prateekmathur

Away From Home...

"Where's home, My Child ?"

Having traversed the arduous, yet remarkable, path of life, in which she had donned roles, as varied as imagination itself;

always transforming, at times not so seamlessly too;

carrying the burden of definitions and adjectives all along;

from a young woman with uncontained ambitions to a homemaker with none; from being someone who dreamt through the innocent eyes of a  toddler to a loner with a plutonic future; from a struggling  single mother to a gracefully ageing success story;

she had traveled far away from home, still seeking a welcome;

Hitherto

She looked at him, and saw Him.

"Where's home, My Child ?"

"Right here, Father. Right here."

.....................................................................................................................................................................................................

More on the thought of #AwayFromHome on this #blog -

"A Nomadic Generation"

"सपना !"

"मोड़ "

.....................................................................................................................................................................................................

Thanks #blogbuddy Aditi for your inputs!

Pic Courtesy - www.beliefnet.com

Today's #blogchatter prompt is 'Away from home' Write on this prompt and connect with us here in the linky below.
Blogchatter is a twitter initiative where bloggers from all spheres connect, engage and support each other in taking blogs to next level. Also every Wednesday we have a chat session at 8.30 PM discussing a range of blogging topics each week. Do tune in!

#Blogchatter 23rd Dec to 30th Dec

Let Me Go

I heard a doctor screech when they first looked at me and one of the nurses fainted.

Do I look that dreadful?

A doctor is trying to clear my eyes. There are bite wounds inside my eyes. I have plasters on all limbs. My cheeks are swollen and there are injuries all over my face. Clearing my wounds must have been a daunting task.

I like the nurses here. They are kind. The older ones say that they have never seen a case like mine before.

Everybody is trying desperately to save me. There are machines all over me. There is a team of doctors and nurses working round the clock just for me.
And then there are some who just want to take my photos!

I have survived, but I can’t be saved.
After all, I am all but, 2 years old.


My mother always thought I was pretty, even when I wasn’t born. Oh! Mothers, silly! I don’t know her name, but the little I saw of her, I can say, my mother was pretty. Definitely emaciated, but she had dignity. It was her dignity for which she fought and decided not to abort me.

I know scientists won’t believe me, but I could hear and feel in my mother’s womb. I could hear the screams, sense the fear and feel the blows. But I could never fathom why she was blamed for my existence. Even before I was born, I had my haters. My mother bore the trauma for 2 years and it’s only when she was unconsciousness that they could take me away from her.

I know the bites in my eyes are not from an insect. But I would like believe it was an insect, or many.

I am not scared. I don’t feel the pain anymore.

The pain was over when they separated me from my mother. The pain was over when they hit me, ignored my cries and broke my bones. The pain was over when they dumped me in trash to be eaten alive by insects.

The pain is long gone. These are just the scars.

I heard someone say that everyone comes to this world for a purpose. They wondered why I came. And why did I survive? May be I survived this long just for a simple message.

My story is told. My pain is felt. I think now, my message is delivered.

They have named me. But it’s pointless to tell you. You won’t remember.

You have forgotten the basic truths of life. I am the creator. I am the best friend and the most loyal fan. I am the embodiment of love, dignity and poise. I am the woman.

And you are not ready for me.

Let me go.






* Inspired from a piece from Purba Ray and instigated from the recent events of the "battered baby" case. I don't wish to name her. You won't remember.


Photo Courtesy- HD Wallpapers app for iPhone