Contemporary Literary Review India | Print ISSN 2250-3366 | Online ISSN 2394-6075 | Impact Factor 8.1458 | Vol. 7, No. 3: CLRI August 2020

Ravi Teja Mandapaka

The Daughter I will Never Have

The daughter I will never have

Shall call me ‘Prud’, for me roots are from river ‘tyne’,

Inside the most revered hearts, will she be,

Onto the most sacred lands and hands, will her life be.

The daughter I will never have,

She’ll be taught that life’s a tedious journey,

From fields to forks to beds and graves,

And paint the solar system in pink and blue,

If only to hold the entire universe under her belt.

The daughter I will never have,

She’ll be told that life’s all but a peaceful misery,

And will be sung stories of boldness and inspiration,

To thump and scruff away till her lungs taste a blessed air.

The daughter I will never have,

Shall be told not to stretch her hands too long,

For they’ll always be short to capture all the pain,

She, herself and her soul can ever heal.

The daughter I will never have,

Shall see the world from underside of a glass bottom boat,

To envisage and envision galaxies and triumphs and ecstasies,

To enjoy that odd chocolate, a drink, and coffee, if only, if only,

To keep kissing herself, loving the subtle space,

She, herself and her soul has.

The daughter I will never have,

She’ll taste the foremost sugar, an unsurpassable bittery salt,

Landing on an intriguing snowy place called life.

She’ll remind herself to apologize for any wrongdoing,

But not for the way her eyes refrain from shining,

She’ll be, for once and all asked to rise like gladiators of ore,

And defy the most blatant of cynicisms and criticisms.

For in short,

To love a woman is like taking birth again,

And, to live that to the end is, salvation.

Ravi Teja Mandapaka is a ‘Lean Six Sigma’ professional based out of Hyderabad, India. He holds a Master of Science degree in Foods and Nutritional Sciences and has been writing on science and sports in media, in corporate and academia. In short, through his research, he wishes to wave a final goodbye from the most sacredly endowed rostrum of Sports Literature.

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