Photo by beamillion
Tattered clothes that were barely there
Her tortured soul was threadbare too.
She mirrored our impotent helplessness
In the face of destiny’s dire performance
As we watched her bizarre life played out.
Every time I saw her writhe and squirm,
Flushed ‘n flustered, distressed as well as
Distraught, being hammered into oblivion,
Utter bleakness gawked at us all, mocking
Our inability to assist her back on her feet.
This could have been a splendid heaven
But it was her personal undisclosed hell,
She was screaming out silently for help
Hoping to find a way out of the labyrinthine
Tangle that was choking the life out of her
Callously curbed, and mentally chained,
Wordlessly she suffered her humiliation
Not at the hands of distant villains, but by
Closest of her kin, who married her twice,
And abandoned her on myriad occasions.
Born to suffer like her namesake from past,
The eternally estranged, mother of Krishna.
She shook us out of our false complacence.
And it was probably designed by fate that
She did not recognize it as her true reward,
That the only qualification she had was
The gift of her painfully won knowledge,
That, being weathered by adversity, she
Emerged wiser in her ability to survive,
Despite life being beyond her control.
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