“The Fortress of One”

In the heart of Delhi's restless beat,

Lived a mother with love and aching feet.

Two young souls under her wing,

She bore the weight of everything.

No village near, no shoulder close,

No hand to help her chase her woes.

Home and office, night and morn,   

                        She braved the tide, though bruised and worn.                       

With rising sun, she packed their bags,

Ironed shirts and zipped their rags.

Her voice, a whip when time was tight,

Her eyes, twin flames of constant fight.

She taught them rules, set boundaries tall,

So they might rise, not trip or fall.

Discipline, her only shield—

In this harsh world, she wouldn't yield.

But once a month, their father came

With gifts, with games, and none to blame.

He smiled and softened every line

She'd drawn in sweat and sacrifice fine.

“Let them breathe, let them play,

Why must your love feel like a cage each day?”

He’d say with eyes too blind to see

The cost of keeping a family free.

The toys he brought, the sweets he gave,

Could never match the nights she stayed

Awake beside their fevered beds,

Or kissed their dreams and stroked their heads.

Yet arguments flared like Delhi heat,

Old love now bruised, not soft but fleet.

Voices rose, and silences screamed,

Of homes once whole, now torn at seams.

"You're too harsh," they'd say with scorn,

"A mother like you leaves hearts forlorn."

They whispered lies of trauma deep,

Of children who might never sleep.

An FIR cold as courtroom air,

Filed by hands that wouldn’t dare

To bear what she bore day and night—

Her children's tears, her silent fight.

Now she stands with fire and ache,

Branded cruel for their own sake.

Short-tempered? Yes. But wrong at core?

What mother would not wage this war?

She does not crave the world’s applause—

Just safe, good lives without a pause.

So if you judge her, judge her true:

Could you do all the things she’d do?

A mother’s love wears many masks—

Some tender sweet, some thorned with tasks.

Don’t call her harsh without the weight

Of walking in her tested gait.

---

Is she wrong?

No.

She is a fortress built in flesh and bone,

Guarding two lives all alone.

Not every storm wears thunder’s face—

Some rage in silence, born of grace.