My Father, my hero!

Orphaned when he was barely six,

My father vowed to be there for his kids!

He lost all his siblings before he reached forty,

Yet he was positive with kids, making them naughty!

What he lost was rendered as past,

As he thought the world was wide and vast!

Each day he cared for what was left, at all costs!

People wondered if fate was cruel or was it a test of sorts!

An early cataract left him half blind,

But he had no time to argue with fate so unkind!

Undeterred, he went ahead, doing what he had to do,

For, he knew that even without a needle, he had to sew!

He raised three girls, each with a different skill,

Yet claimed no credit, deeming it as nature’s will!

Sometimes people tell him what he should have done,

And he listens patiently though he knows nothing can be undone! 

Author's note: 

Parents are like the needle that directs the thread through the fabric called life, giving it the 'wearable' shape. Once done they are snapped out, for if they remain with the thread, they will hurt the wearer!

In a traditional and culture oriented country like India, parents play a very vital role in shaping their children's lives. 

Though I have only seen my father's struggles, I safely assume that many like him who had lost their parents very early in life must have gone through similar struggles.

I dedicate this poem to all those who have struggled hard to sew their fabric without a needle or with a broken needle!