POEM_: Dialogues with Mother: X

I was never good enough
for you, Mother.

I was not good enough
when I got admission to a good school.
You wanted the best,
so you asked me to lie
that I did get admitted
to the best one,
but for practical reasons,
am going to the lesser.

You told me to tell all
that I chose
to go to a distant college
as it saved a year,
and offered a better course
though the fact was that
I did not get admitted
to the college, closer home.

When I took up a job
in a distant city,
you asked me to tell all
that it was only a training!

I am really grateful, Mother
for your pushing me
to reach ever higher. 
But if it was only for my sake,
why the shame?

Mother,
I am not your tool
to achieve your greatness.

It was my life, or was it yours?
Why did I have to fulfill your ambitions?
What of mine…?

You did well--
no indeed, great, from where you started.
Though that might not be as great
as you may have wanted it to be.
But remember, for me,
you are still
the greatest mother on Earth.
Warts and all.

I never asked
for a similar pride
but, why can you simply
not be ashamed of me?


- owais



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This is first being published here.

POEM_: Dialogues with Mother: IX

The lips are pursed.

The eye-brow lifts,

ever so little.

The eyes are just a shade sterner.

That special look

has just condemned you--

“So,

you are one of those”

And ‘those’, for me,

has often been--

Indian

Muslim

Gay

Apostate.

And every time,

it was said

that we were being given

‘special rights’, being ‘appeased’.

Every time,

the condemners, if given the power

would happily rid the World of

the condemned ‘those’.

Incredulous,

I remember the witch-hunts,

the auschwitzes, the crusades

the rightist brigades, the parivars.

And you,

Mother.

- owais

--

This is first being published here.

POEM_: Dialogues with Mother: VIII

Mother,

you ask me--

if I love him

more than

I love you?

Perhaps, I do.

Why?

Many reasons,

but most prominently, because

when I embarrass myself,

you get embarrassed

of me.

He, for me.

- owais

--

This is first being published here.

POEM_: Dialogues with Mother: VII

Mother,

I always saw you

as Durga, as Kali. 

I never thought

that the real you

was a mere Savitri!

I thought you had the courage

to fight your

and all others’ demons.

But all that you have shown

is a great capacity

to not let go.

Why mother,

did you fool me so?

You, like so many of your sisters,

never went beyond

that Lakshman-rekha of your womanhood

to become a real person.

Just like so many of my brothers

who never graduate

from being men.

But why does this upset me so?

For if only,

you were a Durga

I could have fought you, fought you to the hilt.

Lost some,

but most certainly, won some.

But you never fought me fair.

By just holding on

to every little bit of my existence,

and wanting to make it yours,

you have left me nothing

of my life, to live!

Mother,

By wanting me to become

the man of your dreams,

you have disallowed your son

to be the only person

that he can be.

- owais

--

This is first being published here.

POEM_: Dialogues with Mother: VI

You gave us, Mother,

on an illustrious day

long, long ago

The Right to JUSTICE

social, economic and political

The Right to EQUALITY

of status and of opportunity

You promised us FRATERNITY

you assured us

the dignity of the individual.

Most importantly, you gave us

The Right to LIBERTY

of thought, expression, belief,

faith and worship.

Dear Mother,

Are some of your daughters and sons

more equal than the rest?

Why, then,

you forgot to give us

the dearest

of all liberties, that of

Love?

- owais

--

This is first being published here.

POEM_: Dialogues with Mother: V

Mrs. Shanti Bhutani,

she told-

I hugged him, and said,

Nothing has changed. 

Don’t worry.

Oh, how I wished

that you had said

the same…

But no, you did not.

We exchanged

reams and reams

in registered air-mail.

You went

and cried

on the shoulders of those

who did not care a damn

about you.

Or me.

You told them

what I had given you in faith

that you would not

lend it to others

to play with.

Mother,

you betrayed me,

yet again,

and then, you fought with me.

You declared me sick,

and awarded me

an assorted heap

of other such painful and unsavoury titles.

You asked me

to go see a doctor.

To unlearn being myself!

Oh,

how I wish

that you had done what Shanti did

when her son told her

that he was gay.

- owais 

--

This is first being published here.

.

POEM_: Dialogues with Mother: IV

You do not understand 

Do you?

Y’know,

it’s easy to forgive strangers. 

We expect nothing of them;

if they hurt us, well,

who allowed them inside, in the first place? 

We were at fault too.

It is also easy to forgive one’s friends. 

We can afford to forget them,

if not the hurt. 

And one can always make new friends.

It’s easy to forgive one’s children:

they are, after all,

one’s own flesh and blood;

our vehicles to immortality.

And, of course,

if not easy,

it is still not very difficult

to forgive one’s lovers. 

Whatever we gave,

we gave voluntarily; out of love. 

And what is given away

cannot be asked back.

What about Self?

It is often difficult

to forgive one’s self. 

But this is one person

with whom one has to stay always. 

Those who cannot forgive themselves

often do not live long enough

to tell the world of their pain.

What is most difficult,

is to forgive one’s own parents:

the memories, the thoughts

the humiliation of utter dependence,

Man’s worst fears confirmed-

trust me, they are not

easily banished into the kingdom

of the dead and forgotten. 

Every little hurt, every minor pain

springing from a child’s powerlessness

adds a new fiery drop

into the disconsolate ocean of his discontent;

and finds for him, his very own scapegoat-

in the form of his parents.

I am trying, Mother,

I am trying. 

Just do not make it any tougher, please!

Trying to forgive you.

- owais

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This was published earlier in "Love?"

.