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Yesterday,
on my 75th birthday,
thinking of her,
I made her a queen—
draped in splendor,
seated against
a majestic backdrop.
Which son would not?
But today,
memory took me
somewhere else—
to Delhi, in 1957—
to a little kitchen
where a six-year-old boy
sat watching
his mother.
There was no throne,
only the floor;
no royal fire,
only an angeethi
glowing with charcoal;
no banquet,
only vegetables,
a little rice,
and a roti
rising gently
on the tava.
A few steel utensils
rested on the shelves.
A matka
kept the drinking water cool.
Krishna watched silently
from the wall.
Outside,
trees reached toward the sky
and birds flew past
our little world.
And Mother—
her head covered
with her dupatta,
her hands busy
feeding a family—
was unaware
that a little boy
was quietly engraving
the moment
into his soul.
Nearly seventy years
have passed.
The angeethi
has grown cold,
the kitchen
has disappeared,
and the little boy
has grown old.
Yet,
when I close my eyes,
she is still there—
making a roti,
smiling,
alive.
Yesterday,
I made her
look like a queen.
Today,
I remember—
what she always was—
my queen.
No wonder,
my eyes are moist
with joy
and reverence.
Image courtesy: rajGuru Notes
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