Away from him,
they carry her,
They believe
that behind this journey lies peace,
Shouting and
hailing the name of Deity,
And few sobbing
in grief.
There he sits
holding himself stiff,
Recalling days
of childhood and youth,
And also a few
moments back when she was alive,
His mother’s
dead and he finds it hard to believe.
“Oh young boy,
get up and come along”,
As all men yell
and groan at him,
He wakes up, and
gets back from flashbacks,
He hops and
jumps up, run towards her,
Lends his
soldier to his mother,
Abiding to
social norms, proving to be her heir,
He picks up and
carries her towards the pyre,
Helping her pass
by through the last walk of life.
He walks too
far, yet feels no pain,
His head aches
of some mental strain,
They place his
mother next to the pyre,
She’ll vanish in
the wind in a short while,
He’ll have to
burn her, bring her to ash,
Fulfil the norm
of being the only child,
That strange
fact he fails to acquaint,
Yet he does, as
he was taught to be a social child.
The priest chant
prayers, he lights up the pyre,
The winds blow
up, spreads the fire,
The pain of
seeing his mother burn
Which he can’t
hold on, better he finds to sit alone,
The fire of the
pyre which was about to disappear,
He stands up,
walks steadily to the pyre,
Burns up a cigarette
from the fire burning his mother,
He felt he could
see the last sight of her for another while.
