The Minority Child

Oh mother, can I call you mine?
With great angst I pen this line.
Oh mother, I love you like the rest
Yet why am I the only one on test.

Oh mother, can I call you mine?
Oh mother, can you see the signs?
Can you feel the hesitation in my steps
Can you sense the trepidation that has crept
In my heart, in my soul, in my very core?

Unsure of the present, apprehensive of what is in store
Am I the unwanted child you wished you never had?
This thought makes my heart unbearably sad.

Oh mother, can I still call you mine?
Oh mother, these are trying times.
Oh mother am I not worthy of being your child?
Have I not always done your bidding and stood by your side?

Oh mother, can you not see
The rights that you gave me
Seem like privileges that I will get
If I prove my worthiness to the rest.

Oh mother, why do I feel like the other
Why do I see a stranger in my brother?
Oh mother, all I need is a warm embrace
A few words of comfort and a little solace.

Oh mother, I feel like a prisoner in my own home
Unfamiliar seem the streets that I used to roam.
Oh mother, what should I do?
Where should I go?

I really want to hold on to hope
But my grip is slipping on the rope.
I feel I am hurtling down the abyss
Where fear is in abundance, trust is amiss.

Oh mother, make it right before it’s too late
In your hands I leave my fate.

The author is an Indian who happens to be Muslim. 

Featured image credit: Jeremy Yap/Unsplash

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