Mom, you're the man

It was 4 in the morning.

She was fighting.

Fighting with all her will.

She switched off.

But only for a bit.

She’s 61.

She can afford to take some rest.

Took some rest from the struggle.

‘Struggle’ found it tough.

In the hospital,

the doctors found her tough too.

She was, in fact.

The doctors, teasingly, called her a boxer.

She didn’t know anything about boxing.

She just knew ‘boxes’.

The ones that packaged her rice.

And her saris.

She’s fond of saris.

A lot.

In the hospital,

there was a beeping machine

planted right behind her head.

She wouldn’t have known what was it called.

I didn’t know either.

But, who cares?

She didn’t.

In her deep slumber,

she must be counting the beats of the beeping machine.

And matching them with

the neighbouring uncle’s snores.

She’s not a musician.

She thinks she is.

She must have crafted some words.

Must have sung it aloud,

scandalising the doctors.

She’s not a singer.

She thinks she is.

She was tied.

Her hands and legs, both.

She had a terrible back ache.

She must have still danced.

To her own song.

She’s not a dancer.

She thinks she is.

She’s all strength, though.

She’s all heart.

That’s what she is.

I want her to know it.

I wanted to talk to her.

Talk to her about my work.

Talk to her about my girl.

Talk to her about my nephew.

I was waiting for her to get up.

She made me wait, but she did.

She asked, “How long was I asleep?”

I smiled.

p.s. I haven't yet spoken to her about my girl.