Maa by Manav Kaul | E 04 | Hindi Poetry | Terribly Tiny Tales | Mother’s Day


“I’m moving to Mumbai” I told Maa, one day. Maa made me sit next to her
and traced the lines on my palm. “Arey!”, she exclaimed. There was a nip in the air, a comforting sun
looked over us. We were sitting in the verandah. There was a nip in the air, a comforting sun
looked over us. We were sitting in the verandah. I asked her, “What happened?” She sighed, and said,
“You don’t have a fortune line, my son.” “You’ll have to toil a lot.” I started rubbing my hands, almost in reflex. Mom said, “This won’t help.” “But there’s one good thing, here.” I asked “What?” “You have the hands of a labourer”, she said. That moment, a beautiful butterfly sat on her shoulder. That moment, a beautiful butterfly sat on her shoulder. Does the butterfly remember that it was a caterpillar once? Does a bird ever seek its fortune in its palms? Thinking this, I shrugged my shoulders.
And left.

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