The War Widow Through the Ages

In ash and bronze where heroes fell,

A widow wept by citadel.

The Spartan sails had long since gone,

Yet still she keened till breaking dawn.

With olive oil and whispered name,

She lit her grief like temple flame.

But far to east, in dusky red,

Where Ganga flows and legends tread,

Kunti stood with sons of war—

A mother, widow, goddess, scar.

Gandhari’s blindfold veiled her pain,

Her hundred sons all lost in vain.

We watched you rise, then watched you fall,

A world in ashes, answering your call.

A Roman veil, in mourning tied,

She watched her man in triumph ride.

Then came the scroll: “He bled, he died.”

She kissed the wax, but not her pride.

She bore his child with stoic breath,

And lived in marble’s shade of death.

Your empires crumble, stone by stone,

The tears we shed, your overthrow.

And in the Rajput fort so high,

A queen chose fire, not foreign lie.

Padmavati in flame did rise—

A widow made of smoke and skies.

Through jauhar’s heat and battle’s cry,

She kept her soul, though forced to die.

Remember flame, remember truth,

The price of conquest, in our youth.

Then came the ships, with flags unfurled,

And whispers turned to a conquered world.

From Plassey's field to distant shore,

Our men were taken, asked for more.

The indigo stained, the opium flowed,

A new grief planted, bitter-sowed.

You built your wealth on broken bones,

Our silent screams, on stolen thrones.

The debt you owe, it will be paid,

In justice sought, in light displayed.

And in the Rajput fort so high,

A queen chose fire, not foreign lie.

Padmavati in flame did rise—

A widow made of smoke and skies.

Through jauhar’s heat and battle’s cry,

She kept her soul, though forced to die.

Remember flame, remember truth,

The price of conquest, in our youth.

Then came the boots on Delhi’s stone,

And widows marched, though left alone.

In first war of independance's roar,

She held the child, yet asked for more.

Rani Lakshmi Bai astride,

Fought sword to sword, with tears she’d hide.

We learned to fight, to never yield,

A rebel's spirit, on every field.

She watched the trains of soldiers leave—

Sikh, Maratha, Tamil, Grieve—

In khaki sent to Empire’s war,

To bleed in lands they'd not seen before.

The telegrams came black and cold,

And widows learned to not grow old.

For every son, a silent plea,

For every life, accountability.

Two world wars shook her steady frame.

Her letters edged with soot and flame.

She cooked for sons she’d never see,

A brass plate cold, a silent tree.

She wore white sari, no red thread,

No sindoor bright above her head.

Your grand designs, your global strife,

Paid for by our vanished life.

But time marched on, and sons still fell—

In Kargil’s snow, in border shell.

Yet now she rose in khadi drape,

No longer just a symbol draped.

She spoke in courts, she cast her vote,

She wore her name like badge or coat.

We will not fade, nor disappear,

Our voices echo, loud and clear.

And now she stands in modern glass,

Where data streams and warships pass.

From LoC to ocean's line,

Her grief still sharp, but now a sign:

“You took his life, not all of mine—

My voice, my will, my fire still shine.

You built your empires on our pain,

But from these ashes, we rise again.

The world will hear, the world will see,

The cost of war, the fight for liberty.

We are the memory, the unforgotten tide,

And in our truth, nowhere to hide.”