That Woman

"Hello", I called out and smiled at you
You looked with disgust, "Do I know you?"
I'm neither well-dressed nor a pretty face
But insult me not with scorn and disgrace.

"You know me, as I've often told you
I am that beggar woman you see across the street
That you pass each day, with no sympathy
That woman struggling daily to make both ends meet.

"You know me, as I've often told you
I am that old lady that was shunned by her only son
Like an inanimate object that would not protest
Still waiting for her inconspicuous son to return.

"You know me, as I've often told you
I am that mother who sold herself every night
In youth, to feed her baby crying in her arms
Hiding him in her aanchal from dust and light.

"You know me, as I've often told you
I am that woman you left at another crossroad
When I was breathing and living and eating
Why do you feed me on my shradha now?

Footnote: Shradha is a ceremonial fire or yajna in India that devout Hindus perform on the death anniversary of their parents for their souls to rest in peace. Among other things, he feeds the fire with food and sweets so that his parents do not suffer from hunger in their afterlife.

This poem is inspired from a small reading of Shree Madh Bhagwat Gita that I happened to attend a few days ago where all the holy shrines are said to rest in the feet of one's parents and by offering service to one's parents, one earns the blessings of all the Gods.