The Dead Mother Blesses Poem by AtreyaSarma Uppaluri

Dead mother’s sons
In the forecourt of their dwelling
Porched over with a big multi-coloured tent
And with an assortment of occupied chairs
Mumbling out bidden chants
And quietly giving away handfuls of cash
To the team of priests
At every propitiatory interval
As ordained by them.

The sons felt a tinge of guilt:
“Oh Mother!
We hadn’t ever heeded
Even to buy you a good fruit or sweet;
Cold arithmetic held us back.”

They heard her voice, only they -
“Dear children!
Don’t feel for it;
I’m your mother.
For your happiness
I live or die.
So do feed the priests
And be happy.”

Dead mother’s sons
Proudly gifted a milch cow and calf
As prescribed by the priests.
The cow was eating its feed off the trough
With the young calf thrusting its snout
Into its mother’s udder with all its might.

The sons felt a wisp of remorse:
“Oh Mother!
We had always dithered
Even to buy you your routine medicines;
We had on our mind our own tonics and toasts.”

They heard her voice, only they -
“Dear children!
Don’t feel for it;
I’m your mother.
For your happiness
I live or die.
So go ahead
And gift the cow and calf
And be happy.”

The prodigals put the priests
And their own entourage
Of friends and relatives
On a rich multi-course food
During the memorialisation.

Their pricked consciences
Spoke in aphonic chorus:
“Oh Mother!
We had hardly cared
Even to buy you your modest clothes.
How can we forget our callousness?
How will anyone forgive our cruelty?
We had focused on our own wardrobes.”

They heard her voice, only they -
“Dear children!
Don’t feel for it;
I’m your mother.
For your happiness
I live or die.
So go on
And feast the priests and guests
And be happy.”

The sons sat down with banana leaves in front
To partake of their ceremonial food.
As they raised their first morsel
They recalled in vivid detail
How their mother fondled them
Goaded them, and fed them
Along with jokes and tales and lullabies.
They choked and broke out
Tears welling down their cheeks
Their trunks heaving up and down.

The sons felt the touch
Of their dead mother’s hand on them:
“Dear children!
Eat your fill;
You are so weary and hungry,
You poor things!
If you don’t eat, it pains me
So eat you well
And I’ll be happy
Wherever I am.”

[Mar 24,2009: : Hyderabad - 500 056]