Life of a widow is miserable. Especially if she hailing from an Hindu family in India. Most of them are let to live isolated from all fun and grandeur attiring simple clothes and sometimes stay back from certain rituals of a family celebration. This poem highlights the pathetic condition of such a widow.


Darkness ruled her day ad night,
Dreadful thoughts without flicker of light,
Dreary and draped in doleful tide,
With two little fledglings on either side,
Yes! She is a widow of tender age.
Venomous words were sprayed on her,
Shackled with hate onus and dishonour,
Afflicted and immersed in doldrums she lay,
For death to conquer her and slay,
Yes! She is an Indian widow of tender age.
The rouge of her cheeks now rugged and rut,
The gleam of her eyes is limply set,
Once lustrous hair now a lurid bear,
Sensual lips now parch and tear,
Yes! She is widow of tender age.
No tilak adorns her forehead,
No-more jewels around her neck,
No gaud draped her body,
None to croon a melody,
Yes! She is an Indian widow of tender age.
Her fledglings gave an insipid stare,
None to inspire joy or care,
"Born to maim" Oh! a ghastly sight,
No silver line in the darkened sky,
Yes! She is a widow with two wee kids.
Anxiety gnawed her with jerks,
Wailings gushed out in breaks,
Future formed stair-less peaks,
Only echo answered her wails.
Yes! She is an Indian widow of tender age.

Jacintha Morris,
Welfare Assistant
AG's Office, Tvm
Mob: 9895278001

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