The Incomplete Foetus

Incomplete Foetus

She has a life inside her,
Two new lives began to shape that day.
From August, a countdown of nine months,
So many hopes attached to this foetus,
Rightly so, the month would be ‘may’.

She’ll grow fat but she isn’t worried.
She’ll have to forgo her favourite diet.
It will be painful, she knows;
with every month, the pain grows
But for that foetus, everything is right.

She wondered what color of eyes will she have?
Will his nose be as long as his dad?
Will her cheeks be as fluffy as her aunt?
Two pictures, a he and a she,
There’s no bias. Two pictures which make her glad.

Her first tests are done;
the baby is fit inside.
Womb, the safest place a person could be in.
She is ready to bear all, A mother growing within.
Just the 4th month, but the baby already her pride.

Different people come and tell her different things,
“How do you still maintain your health?”, ask the kitty
“How many months?”, ask the neighbours,
and her husband says, “You still look as pretty.”

She blushes on most replies,
100 days left on the countdown.
Shouldering more responsibilities in her stomach, she moves.
To name her child, she’s finding the most proper proper noun.

With tremendous pain, she could somehow move
Deemed to be natural, but she had to be admitted.
Tensed on the front, but content in the core.
The next test results were awaited.

“Doctor, this cannot happen” said her Husband
“Understand” said the doctor in-charge
Near to the nine months, all of it was a mirage.
“But what has been the problem. Can.. How…”
“Understand, we need to carry out misoprostol now”

Tears flooded the hospital corridor, she wept in bed
About the past eight months, she thought
She screamed, she begged, the curtains fell,
the play ended. Her pain did not.

She crept inside her white blanket,
White covered the dead foetus, symbolic it was,
Weaving little blankets just a day before was her mother,
The hope of being called a naani, put to pause.

“You couldn’t give us our descendant” screamed the elders
“You are infertile” shouted the other;
Treated ill in the house she called home.
The child had died, slowly dying was this mother.

While the family wanted answers.
She questioned God, questioned His unfair play.
“Why did you take away my child”, she asked
“Why did you leave my Foetus to decay?
Why God, why do you hate us?
Why God, why did you give me an incomplete foetus?”

Miscarriages or Gender are not in control of women,
Why blame the one who bared everything with grace,
Do not let her lose herself and stay with her,
Bring her heart back to the same pace.
Bring her life back to the same place.


About Chetan

A twenty year old infant who fears if crows may shit on him or if Bengali aunties' umbrellas may prick him in the eye. He is currently waiting for Mamata Banerjee to leave Kolkata.

Posted on November 7, 2015, in February Compositions., Specials and tagged , , . Bookmark the permalink. Leave a comment.

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