The Tamasha of Birth and Death


When your child is born.

You go through it all. Your insides tearing, just like the screams renting the air. Apart. Some so strong they die the moment they take birth. In the throat itself. Shrouded in the silence of decorum you were taught to maintain. You try behave. Cooperate, as you get killed to be born in the form of your child. You heed the doctors, the nurses order you. Sit-up and spread, now push a universe out. Exposed but all sense of shame lost somewhere in the crowd of pain. Earth-shattering. Every vessel in your body threatening to explode. Exploding. The only truth? You, what’s inside of you … and the struggle. And then it comes, looking blood and sweat but with your nose, or maybe eyes too. An out of body experience for pain leaves you. Suddenly. Your body is yours again. Cleaned and cherubic, wrapped in pastels your baby comes into your arms.

And then the world takes over. Hospital or home. Your child no longer yours. The oldest around occupies the throne, orders the next in line. Instructions from Stone Age. Some wise most rubbish! Don’t count the toes thus, stop the camera, you fool! Black dots …

[To read more, please click here.]

[This post is written for WordPress Daily Prompts. The author, Sakshi Nanda, stays somewhere ‘Between Write and Wrong‘.]

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