Little Buddha, Milestone no. 7

Dearest Little girl,

 

Seven years ago today you chose me to be raised as a parent by you. The moment you grabbed my index finger in your new born chubby fist for the first time, I knew you had grasped my heart and soul in your iron grip.

 

As you grew each day, I was your pathway to this strange and confusing new world and you were my window into myself. You had to learn language and I had to learn to read silence, to understand the subtlety of baby burps and the softness of baby yawns, I started looking at everyday routine like food and sleep also as wonders.

 

Life is a miracle because of you, if at all I will ever come closer to the peace and wisdom the world knows as Buddha , you are that Little Buddha. In your stories and anecdotes you make me a better human being, in your imagination you give wings to my dreams, in your curious queries I learn the humility of real intelligence.

 

I am thankful the way your enriched my father’s last few years in the physical world, the way you held me together in my grief of losing a parent, how on occasions you with such natural ease became that missing parent for me.

I am amazed at how this same world I inhabit for the last almost three and a half decades seems new from your perspective, how you make me feel meaningful and loved unconditionally.

 

Dear girl, I am eternally grateful for being your parent, co-learner, friend and student.

 

 

Be yourself. Always ask your questions, never shy away from your core, let your light shine whatever the odds. Never be scared from following your instincts, no matter how against the grain these are. Love yourself-body and soul. Keep the warmth,compassion and enthusiasm alive and keep sprinkling your stardust on your mamma.

Happy 7th Birthday angel !!

RADHA

This is a Winning entry here at Women's Web 

Photo courtesy: Birbal Sharma

Another cold winter dawn will break a few hours later in her tiny hilly village.She does not even remember since when she learned to wake up at this hour,quickly grab her mangled woolen scarf and head for the barn.The young ones of the cows and the sheep are used to an early breakfast and she loves to see them snuggle next to their mothers as soon as she unfastened them from their stakes.Every morning she loses some precious time here just gazing at this divine scene.

Just before sunrise the kitchen chimney is smoking,she quickly guts the watery tea in her tin cup and heads for the stream.Thankfully the cooking is taken care of.In summers the water bit is fun,while filling her two pots she often slips her feet in the fresh cool gurgling bubbles of the stream and  also splashes some on her face,but in this season the water is so cold that even the pots are difficult to handle after a while.

On her way back she can see the boys heading for the primary school,carefree and naughty and the girls taking the cattle out or fetching firewood.Her mind wanders to the tangy chutney she had saved from her share of previous night's dinner,oh how she would love to have it with a crisp roti and another cup of tea !

But brunch as usual is hurried, the utensils have to be washed for the next meal before the men return from the fields and the cattle has to be attended to.

Long ago when she had gone to school for a few days she had learned about cities where there are cars and buses,taps for hot and cold water and no cattle or fields to attend to.Their teacher had told them that in cities girls also drive cars,go to schools and work in offices and factories.She had only seen one city lady-Indira Gandhi,whose picture hung on the wall of the headmaster's office.

In the evening as she brings back the grazing cattle home every day and carries the stock of firewood for the night she halts in front of the door of the village headman, some folk song is playing on his TV.She begins to hum along and tap her feet,but just after a few seconds the jagged edges of the rope holding the wood begin to cut into her shoulders and she moves on.

Dinner is the usual ,a small helping of buttermilk and rice.The utensils have to be done again,before she finally gets to lie next to her mother in their shared blanket.

Another winter day is over in Radha's life and she closes her eyes to dream about a world where 8 years old girls like her,went to schools. She wanted to be there where grandmothers and other elders did not believe that girls are a curse upon their parents like she and her three younger sisters were.She dreamt of a new dress,shoes,enough rice and buttermilk to eat.She often had dreams about going to school,driving a car,reading thick books and dancing on folk songs.She dreamt till it was a couple of hours to dawn and Radha woke up again to begin another day.



No celebration of womanhood,motherhood,equality or freedom is true or justified till we have little girls like Radha working and getting the basic amenities of life only in their dreams.

This post is part of a contest CELEBRATING GIRLS,CELEBRATING WOMEN

LEFTOVERS

One day he wants
to have a real name
not the'whatever'
with which he is addressed often

he often looks
for the softness
of his mother's hug in
the folds of his torn blanket

he wishes destiny
was a cheap tin plate
that he could scrub clean
and catch his reflection in it

its children's day
in the school
across the road
his share would
only be the leftovers.

(This is for all the children who are made to work so that our society and economy run smoothly.Why celebrate children's day if we can't celebrate children ?)