The Legacy

Inside the cupboard lay

the beautiful black bag,

I wondered who made it

It had no name tag.

Not a Gucci, nor Versache

but as fine as those brands,

The stitches were strong

and spoke of fine hands.

It’s not just a bag, said Mom

but an inheritance of love,

Passed on by a lady

to the seeds she sowed.

From Rangoon to Angrai*

she travelled all the way,

Questioned the traditions

and believed in her say.

Battles she had fought

as a mother, as a wife,

Not in the warfield

but in the journey of Life.

As I held the bag

close to my heart,

I realised we are both

playing the same part.

For we, like the bag

are her very creations,

Her success, her legacy

of five great generations.

We are gathered today

as a mark of celebration,

To remember that womb

the source of all creation.

* - Angarai is a village in Tamil Nadu and my late great grandfather’s native. This poem is on my late great grand mother, as a remembrance, a tribute to her legacy, on her 100th birthday.