Diligently had she laboured Her stirring life with silent suffering. She broke walls to make doors, And made of pains and afflictions, Glittering objects of smile.

She had been brought to her island, Where gold lay beneath stones; She was not beguiled though, For she made of her life, A living work of tapestry, Upon a sad and solemn background.

She took care of her seven grandchildren, With maternal love and devotion kind. She offered to them toil and tears. A spark called duty, Burned with celestial flame, In her tiny little heart, Dissipating feelings dark Of mysterious dread.

She sat reclined with drooping shoulders, Close to me as I talked to her. I strolled by fingers on her head, As she caressed my other hand With the healing touch of her fingers. She looked so loyal and sure of herself. Her heart was not a stranger to her. Wisdom had come to her by silent suffering.

She is ninety-seven now. One day, when her soul will take wing, And touch heaven?s solid ground, With her holy feet, The judges will not trouble her

With questions and interrogations. She is deaf and they know it. Instead they will bring to her, A golden basket with choicest fruits. Peace will come dropping slow, And a thousand blended notes, Will fill the air.

Pramila KHADUN Extract from ?Rajnee?