Battles and Hope : A Mother's Agony

By Sneha Manna

I am sitting by the window, my hands trembling

just like the autumn leaves,

trying to bleed out my aching thoughts on the paper. 

Outside, the wind seems to be howling,

exactly similar to the screams of my heart.

I am writing to you not with these mere words, 

but with the shattered pieces of my soul. 

Not with ink, but with the blood of my grief. 

Oh! my child, my heartbeat, my warrior—

where are you tonight?

Are you safe? Are you warm?

Or are you lying somewhere cold and barren, 

beneath an unknown lonely sky?

You know, I always hear your laughter,

echoing through the empty halls of this home.

I turn around, hoping to see you standing there,

smiling like you always did.

But no, it is just the wind —

playing cruel tricks on a mother who is dying in the thoughts of her son, 

I can remember the way your tiny feet once ran through the fields,

Chasing dreams far too big for this world.

You wanted to be a hero, 

and now you are.

But my love, tell me —

why must heroes always be the first to die?

Look up at the sky, if you can.

Do you see the sun?

The same sun that once kissed your forehead,

that watched over your childhood,

now watches over your battlefield. 

Its golden rays perhaps stained with the smoke of war.

You visit in my dreams every night.

Your voice is so clear,

as if you are standing right beside me,

whispering, “Ma, I’m here.”

But when I wake up,

you are gone.

And the silence after that crushes my soul.

I keep the door unlocked.

I cook your favorite meal,

place your plate on the table, 

thinking you will walk in any moment now.

But the food grows cold.

Your chair remains empty.

And all that enters is emptiness.

But even though my heart feels like a field of crushed lilies.

I am proud of you, 

You are not just my son,

you are the son of this soil, 

Your every step on the battlefield

is a step towards our secure future. 

You are carrying the 

the weight of a million prayers and dreams,

standing tall against all the odds.

The flag you defend flutters not just with fabric,

but with the breath of all those mothers who dare to dream, 

of a free and fearless tomorrow.

You will be the roots of freedom,

the branches of hope, the blossoms of sacrifice.

Don't worry about me, my child.

You are the Phoenix. 

you must rise from the ashes. 

I pray you never fall.

But if you do, 

fall knowing that I will never leave your side,

and even in death, you are not alone.

I will keep the fire burning.

I will keep your name alive.

I will call your name into the wind, hoping that you hear me. 

I will whisper to the stars, expecting you to send me a sign. 

And if nothing works, 

I will wait until my own soul drifts beyond the heavens

just to hold you once more. 

I will wait. 

I swear it.

By Sneha Manna