By Revathi Balaga
Would you believe me if I told you I never once was in such a state from the beginning of time?
And then, you happened.
I remember how my chest used to fill with warmth whenever I was touched with your little feet
when you walked. How I felt proud when you first started to run and how I was overcome with
grief each time you fell down and scraped your knee. And how my pride found its way back
every time you got up despite the pain.
But watching you grow up wasn’t the most beautiful thing. Somewhere during that period, you
stopped loving me. There was the constant pressure of the wheel against me. And then smoke
started choking me. My temperatures started to soar. You turned my gushing water streams
meandering through lush green forests into streams of grime. And I’ve witnessed my
complexion’s slow transformation from green to brown. Why does complexion matter anyway?
Why does it matter unless that very hue bears the responsibility of filling billions of stomachs
and twice as many lungs?
I thought it was just a phase. But it seemed to have no end. Mother Earth, you called me. You
seemed to be happy at the cost of my other kids. They started to perish and some of them
vanished entirely from the face of me. I was but a mute spectator. Now I see chunks of metal
carrying you fly away from me and land on the surfaces of my friends, where you do not belong.
My brightest kid. I tried to show you my displeasure in ways innumerable. I shook with anger,
burst into tears and evinced sparks. You didn’t seem to have understood, oh, or noticed at the
very least. Not so bright here, are you?
Everyday, I close my eyes, and memories start rushing to me. And suddenly my motherly
instinct gets the better of me. I am constantly worried if my ill health would affect you. But if I
cough a little too hard, don’t blame me, it was you who choked me with your plastics. If I weep a
little too loud, remember you caused me pain. Remember it is you who pushed the planet of life
into morbidity.
May be change really is the only constant.
And may be, I love you too much.
-An ailing mother.
By Revathi Balaga