Swinging my three tiny tots on a long swing, I sing them their favorite lullaby. I look around to check upon my four elder ones, who are patiently sitting to learn the knowledge of Vedas from their father. A pleasant breeze rustles the leaves as if they hum along my song. This is our happy hour and I feel immensely blessed to have seven wonderful boys while I am on my way with the eighth one – my miracle baby.

A sudden thud from the guard who serves us food wakes me and breaks my beautiful dream. I am left in tears. I rub my hand over my womb in fear for my child’s life. My husband, Vasudeva, tries to console me and asks me to be stronger.  “Stronger,” I ask, “a wife who did not see a single happy morning of a married life and a mother who had to go through child-birth 7 times, only to have her sons killed each time even before their first meal, is not strong enough for you?”

This too shall pass. The world thrives on hope; keep it locked up in your heart no matter what happens. And, don’t worry, our child will live. The prophecy will come true. Have faith” he reassured. In this dark dungeon of a cell, where hope was swinging like a pendulum, I couldn’t help but feel dreary.My sons were killed by my own brother. I sometimes visit them in my dreams, thinking how different life would have been.

Eight days later, my miracle baby is born. HOPE IS BORN. I thought I fell unconscious after birth. Little did I know, so did every guarding eye in the whole kingdom.  My husband safely carried my baby to his brother in the village. While the whole world slept, nature celebrated his birth grandly. My son, who was born in a prison cell, grew up to be the ultimate doom of my murderer brother, the heir to the kingdom, the enemy of all evil, my savior, patron of hope and the world’s symbol of faith.


One Comment

Leave a Reply

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.