Her Frail Palm On My Forehead Poem by Bishnupada Sethi

In a meeting that left a lasting mark on my soul,
she rose abruptly from her bed,
unprepared for my departure.
She asked me to sit beside her.

She confessed she hadn't slept for nights,
her mind restless, turning over thoughts of me—
wondering how I would endure
the darkening days ahead,
the hostile forces closing in.

A premonition gripped her:
things would only worsen, never ease.

Then, with a trembling voice, she urged me
to renounce the world entirely,
to flee to the Himalayas
where saints dwell in eternal peace.

She admitted this would be her deepest wound—
to lose me to the mountains—
yet she would find solace
knowing her son still lived,
somewhere safe, beyond pain.

I sat in silent awe,
marveling at the boundless love
pouring from her fragile frame.
But in those moments she seemed to forget:
my life holds no meaning apart from her.
Her sorrow and my suffering
are woven together,
bound by the ancient threads
of karma and unbreakable love.

When at last I rose to leave,
she laid her frail palm upon my forehead.
In that touch I felt assurance—
the pure current of her love and blessing
would carve a path
through every obstacle yet to come.