"For the hand that rocks the cradle
Is the hand that rules the world.

— Montgomery

Equal love and equal blessing when they go together are called mother. Rabindranath's mother breathed her last when he was but a child. What an emotional thrill flashes across our mind when we read Tagore's recollection of his mother's love filled with blessing.

"When in later life, I wandered about like a madcap, at the first coming of spring, with a handful of half-blown jessamines tied in a corner of my muslin scarf, and as I stroked my forehead with the soft, rounded tapering buds, the touch of my mother's fingers would come back to me; and I clearly realised that the tenderness which dwelt in the tips of those lovely fingers was the same as that which blossoms every day in the purity of these jessamine buds; and that whether we know it or not, this tenderness is on the earth in boundless measure.
  "— My Reminiscences