I wanted to do a mother's day post, but realised that I wouldn't know what to write.
Of mothers perhaps.
There are loves that we are born into, and there are loves that are born of us. And painfully enough, the loves that are born of us, find, in some strange way, a precedence over the loves that we are born into. Perhaps its the love, perhaps its the responsibility, let greater minds debate on that. But it is the same primeval instinct that
makes a mother love her child.
That is what a mothers love would be. An instinct. And so, in a sense, a mother's love is also tragic.Because, an instinct must wean away from her the object of her love.
And when you dwell on things such as these, better left mingled in your being and uncomprehensive to rationality, you'll realise that the tragedy is heightened when the instinct is pure. Undiluted by learning and education enough to bring an awareness of the emotions undergone.
This is the point where you think of the millions in your country, the unsung heroines who haven't heard of a Mother's Day.
And even though you feel an anguish, the pain is washed over by a soothing balm as you watch your child play with the waves.
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