Best Gynecologist of the Year.
She not only delivered babies with finesse,
She also had no failures written in her name of ever.
Everyone oohed and aahed;
While some hugged and said, “Next day, treat’s on your name.”
Some envied and mumbled,
“We’ll get her surely one day.”
She smiled to one and all,
Smile not quite reaching her eyes.
She caught one person saying,
“She will be a good mother to her own babies.
That’s for sure.”
Home she went with the award and bouquets,
But none mattered to her.
That compliment had ripped her out,
‘Twas nothing but just a painful reminder to her.
Some called her Goddess,
Some called her their Savior.
‘Cause she delivered babies like her own child,
She fought to every difficult end like a Mother.
Mercilessly praise her did people,
Often to the point of suffocation.
‘Cause so she was,
When she thought why couldn’t I be a mother.
Lord, why couldn’t I be a mother!
A condition that barred her from having a baby,
When she would give up anything to have him,
Or her maybe.
Adopt she could, but she refused to,
For she thought why not be a little selfish;
I shall be the mother of them all.
She saw her boy in every ‘roughly-kicking’ baby,
She saw her girl in every pretty cooing babe.
She held them in her arms like a very proud mother,
And dried her eyes a little when each went home
She looked at her watch
For she had one more appointment.
Not at the hospital, but a daily routine,
To a place where her angels resided.
Barely had her car come to a stop,
Did she see a group of children running for her;
Orphans were they called,
But to her, they were the children of God
And she, the mother of each and all.
She gifted them chocolates and books,
She took in the updates of them all.
Ruffling the hairs of the naughtiest kid,
To pulling the cheeks of the prettiest babe;
She sang them midnight lullabies,
Till all of them closed their eyes.
Seeing them all sound and asleep,
She went over to straighten the cover of a kid.
The babe had a habit of kicking her covers down,
Pakhi would often muse with love,
One day, she would become a fine footballer, for sure.
Habit Pakhi had, of kissing her night,
So she stooped, to move the hairs off her face,
When suddenly, the child caught
And mumbled in her sleep,
“Love you Momma.”
Her heart broke with pride,
Tears breaking her composure.
She closed her eyes and sighed,
Yes, this is the award, I will want for life.