Before the School Bus Comes

 

**************

The first light whispers softly in saffron morning hue.

Across my quiet window spreads a gentle waking dawn.

In many Indian homes a story begins like this-

A mother’s patient love awakening the day.

*

Before the rising sun I wake with sleepy eyes.

Like countless mothers starting quiet morning chores.

The house still rests beneath the pale and waking sky,

While quiet hands prepare the rhythm of the day.

*

“Betta, wake up now, the morning sun has come,” I call.

My daughter slowly rises from her drifting dreams.

She smiles softly, still wrapped inside her dream-world.

While pale gold light slips softly through the window bars.

*

Her uniform waits pressed with ribbons ready to tie.

Two patient braids fall gently down her shoulders now.

Sleepy laughter slowly fills the quiet morning room.

Morning sunlight warms the silent walls of home.

*

The scent of cardamom slowly fills the warm air.

The kitchen wakes with spices ground by careful hands.

A steamed banana waits beside some morning biscuits.

Warm milk with Horlicks slowly swirling in the cup.

*

I check the timetable and fill the pencil box.

Searching for eraser, cutter, broken ruler.

Sketch pencils hiding somewhere under old books now.

I place them gently inside the waiting school bag.

*

A comb rests quietly behind my hurried hair.

I move quickly between kitchen work and schoolbooks.

For daughters mornings take a little longer still.

More ribbons, braids, and little things to arrange.

*

My son runs out with hair still wild from restless sleep.

My daughter waits for ribbons, braids, and careful hands.

The mirror watches while I smooth her uniform.

For daughters mothers measure every little thing.

*

Then suddenly the sharp school bus horn breaks the air.

“Quick now, take your bus!” I call and rush to the gate.

She runs ahead with shoes still loosely tied in haste.

The yellow school bus waits already down the lane.

*

“Your water bottle!” I shout loudly from the door.

Umbrella forgotten beside the quiet wall.

I run behind her through the soft morning street.

Calling and laughing while chasing the bus together.

*

She climbs aboard and waves through dusty window glass.

My breath still racing in the bright and warming sun.

And in that small rush every morning of life.

A mother’s quiet love travels with the child.

*

For husband and children I prepare the day’s meal.

A simple meal that gathers hearts around one table.

Their laughter spreads softly through the morning rooms.

A warmth no gold or treasure could replace.

*

I mend and I sweep, I wash and I arrange things.

Each humble task becoming love in daily form.

Though weariness settles slowly through my bones.

My love flows onward deeper than the river’s course.

*

And somewhere across this wide and waking land.

Another mother wakes with sleepy eyes like mine.

Perhaps in every Indian home at break of dawn.

A mother lives this rushing morning story.

*

When twilight falls and quiet stars appear above.

I whisper gentle prayers beneath the silent sky.

That love and compassion will always remain.

Within each Indian home gentle and bright.