Omid

by Smitha Vishwanath

Seven years she’d waited for him

She’d prayed five times each day

At fajr, zuhr, asr, maghrib and isha

On the nineteenth day of Ramadan

twelve thousand seven hundred and seventy five prayers

Had been answered

She thought, as his tiny fingers wrapped

Around hers,  his eyes still closed

‘Ya Allah!’ she thanked God

for Omid

. 

‘Omid’ – it means hope

His body still warm

From being nursed

At her breast

Now he lay still

His pure, fresh blood splattered on the white floor

I want to understand why Omid died

Was it her punishment?

For giving birth to hope –

an unforgivable mistake in the eyes of non-believers.

 .

I thought like them that thrust the bullet

Into his tender chest. It shattered his ribs

and punctured his heart. 

I cannot understand

I think, maybe, because I am not as bad.

I thought like the merciful God who gave him life

Seventeen seconds of motherhood He had granted

In exchange for her every prayer

I cannot understand

I think, maybe, because I am not as good

 .

For God is always good

and merciful

my mother says

I cannot understand

So, I pray –

For Omid and

 his mother

And others like Omid-

crushed

before they knew what, it means ‘to be alive.’

 .

Smitha Vishwanath is a banker turned writer. A management professional, she embarked on the writing journey in 2016, with her blog, https://lifeateacher.wordpress.com, while still heading the regional Cards Operations of a bank. After having worked for almost two decades in senior roles in the banking industry, in the Middle East, she quit and returned to India in July 2018 when her husband was transferred on an assignment. Her poems and articles have been published in various anthologies. In July 2018, she co-authored a book of poetry: Roads – A Journey with Verses. Other than writing, she enjoys reading, travelling, and painting.

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