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Our Thaayagam

  • Writer: Ebenezer Veerasingam
    Ebenezer Veerasingam
  • Oct 21, 2019
  • 1 min read

As she wakes up to the call of the Eastern sun,

Her sons and daughters wonder

At her strength, splendour and graceful presence.


They recall

Their mother's genealogy!

They recall what they have come through,

As a family,

Within the arms of her motherhood,

Over the past few decades.


Her fertility was taken for granted

And the purity of her innocence, tested,

Time and again.

Her blood-streams of life flow from the highlands,

Diverted here and there

And she bears the pain of waiting for the monsoons,

Scorched by the thirst of her pregnant vegetation.


The blue waters that surround her

Have witnessed in abundance,

And have in memory,

The names of her children who sailed-off from home.

They sailed off not feeling safe

In their own mother's lap that hosted them once

When they were being fed at her breasts.


There is a murmur of voices

From her fresh tea mountains,

Her treasured palm estates,

The hidden cinnamon gardens,

Her cherished tobacco brown lands,

The excavated gem mines,

And her harvested rice fields.

But they do not sound the same!

There is a mighty confusion within.


The long lost music of the Singing Fish,

The magical frolicking of the Karthigai Virgins,

And the burnt treasure of Knowledge

Are no more to be passed

To her next generation.


Memoirs of the Motherland

Exist in different languages for this mother's children.

For some of them,

It is only found in the ashes of a burnt palm leaf, called

Thaayagam.

 
 
 

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© Ebenezer B. Veerasingam

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