Ryerson student Bavleen Saini was kind enough to send us some of her work. Click here for her blog if you’d like to read more of her writings.
He sat, with the stereotypes of a typical Indian man
As his back support.
He cooked, he cleaned, and he stood
Without any conditions,
Without any complaint,
By her side.
With hands that once worked in fields,
He now holds her hands,
Becoming more than her husband,
He shields her from the pains that run through her body.
He calms her.
As she lays lifelessly breathing in her hospital bed,
He places his hands over her forehead,
In hopes that her pains will cease.
He whispers prayers over her,
In hopes that she will rest in peace.
Who has been taught to show no emotion,
Sits helplessly feeling more than he can bear.
Who has been trained to show no love
Has risen above the social expectations
Of what a man is.
Holding her hand in between his,
Perhaps he wishes their lifelines
In their palms could be re-carved
And together they could’ve lived
A different life.
But no matter what happens,
All I know is that this
Unconventional and so called man,
Is the strongest I’ve ever seen him,
As he places his wife’s hands over his,
In all his life, he has done nothing less
Than serve her.
Lost & Found:
How painful is the pain of when someone
Has taken away, what you hold closest to your heart.
The part of you that no one has ever been able to touch,
Is now in the hands of one unknown,
Who clutches on for reason once cannot understand.
And this someone, holds in their hands
Something that is meaningless to them,
Yet the world to you,
And now we are both lost.
So you and I shall start from scratch,
Creating new creations with new strokes of
Pencils, markers, paints and pens,
Looking through new lenses,
You and I,
The bestest of friends,
Shall recompose and reconstruct
Those pieces that have now been plucked
Out of our lives.
You and I,
Have lost the creations of our history.
But now, upon new canvases,
We will blow kisses,
And watch them soak into
The fine paper sheets.
And it is here that
You and I,
Will finally meet.
We will be found,
And stand with new masterpieces
In our hands.
The Calling of the Death Bed:
It is you who adds the color to my blood,
As if I am a toy you hold in your hands.
Made of bones and skin, you are the creator that
Decides which life I will live.
And now upon my death bed,
Is when I call out for your name,
When in truth,
I’ve lived my life without you
And now I need you
For once I am off this death bed
There will be no other hands to guide me,
No other light to show me the way.
So waheguru, waheguru,
Because your name is the only hope I can hold onto now.
Waheguru, waheguru, because to take my from these lively pains,
Only you know how.