I come home after an extra hour of cricket,

Panting and dead tired;

And stand outside our shanty kitchen,

Waiting to be fired!

“So here you are, you reckless git!”

My mother would hotly say.

And unfailingly fetch my books,

Be it night or day.

She would solemnly stare at the book,

While I recited verse after verse;

With a hug here, a kiss there,

And a scolding, to intersperse.

Then question after question would come,

Like bullets from a gun;

And a few hours would blissfully pass,

Until I was done.

When my books and I were finally spared,

She would grab her cloak and purse;

And rush to the neighbourhood hospital,

Where she worked as a part-time nurse.

She would not eat, she would not drink,

Until she paid my fee.

“My sonny will be a doctor one day”,

She would say with divine glee…

That was all she dreamt,

That was all she prayed,

That was all she expected-

Her son should be a doctor: very wise and well-read.

And so I did become a doctor,

(a great one indeed!)

But when I showed my mother my certificate,

She shyly said –

“Sonny, I cannot read.”

Divya Ganapathy
(A Minerva M Writer)
Read more articles at www.minerva-m.com

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