A Sword & A Shield

Though the pen is his, the voice is still mine.

I always considered my son special. Convincing the world of that, however, has been another matter. As far as I can remember, he has never been afraid to speak his mind, in a world that’s quick to hurt and slow to love. As his mother, having the courage to raise him right needed more strength than I had.

It wasn’t just that the world didn’t understand him. They didn’t want to, and when they did, they never took kindly to the truth. Such has always been the case.

Having the courage to raise him, the right way, also meant the need to watch him suffer.

 What mother can send her child to pain, even if it was the pain of greatness? 

Suman always had a penchant for trouble, even if it was for the right reason. As a child, and in particular, my child, this usually meant criticism. Mostly, criticism that was designed to hurt, just because it could be done. No one knew my child, my baby, and was thus quick to judge. The path to his greatness was tough for him, and his suffering was layers above my own pain.

At times, even I was surprised by the truth in his words. The truth does not feed – it simply makes you hungrier. As he grew in truth, so did his strength, and with that strength, my fear. If anyone had a problem with the truth, they tended to have an even bigger problem with a stronger truth. 

As he reached adulthood, there came a point where, in truth, he was righter, but either too cautious, or too brave. Always at the wrong time.

He needed strength he did not have, and I became his shield. Of course, being his shield wore me down. The attacks are always great, but the shield must not fall.

Eventually, he began to grow. Not just in strength, or truth, but in the desire to withhold the truth. To wait, to watch, and to not act. To listen, whether in right or wrong, or in pain or joy.

The desire of being right became being right, because the world listens to actions, as actions speak louder than words.

He didn’t like it. He didn’t like that I constantly told him that he was wrong, because even though there was truth in my words, there was always truth in his actions. Overtime, the struggle to hold my shield up, became the pain in his eyes. Even though he didn’t know the size of my shield, and the shade in which he grew, the shivering of my arm was obvious. 

It was painful to see my pain reflected in his eyes. But that is the path he chose, and shields can never fall. Just like the path to his greatness would not be easy, mine never was. Courage begets courage, but pain inspires pain too.

Now, a time comes where the shield will fall. Maybe, not today. Maybe, not even tomorrow.

But…I see the cracks. An insult, too much to bear. A criticism, that hit hard because there was a lot of truth to it, right after laughter with derision. The hand that bears the shield is strong, but the body is older.

I see him reaching for the shield. He grows, in truth, in strength, and in patience. Without him realizing it, I am dropping the shield, and getting ready the sword. The shield that sheltered him against the rain, the wind, and the arrows of pain, will eventually be his burden, his protection, a souvenir of trials we overcame. One day, the shield will pass on, a legacy of protection.

As he springs into battle, I shall watch his glory, knowing that it was my shield that bore him, and that my eyes will always smile upon his back, just as they did when I first saw him.

Suman P. Jampala. Dedicated to my mother, Samata Jampala.