On days like these where the rice is a tad bit undercooked
for the palates, and the lentils in a dire need of another tablespoon of salt;
my mother’s womanhood is at odds with her state of being a mother –
where the roof of her mouth has forgotten her favorite taste in food
as her taste buds remain assiduously assigned to ensuring the flavors,
the spices, the textures were all without a flaw before she hollers,
across the house for us to come sit and dine.
On days like these where I waltz out of my room wearing a new pair of jhumka,
and a black bindi matched with a tie-dyed kurti, my mother’s womanhood is at odds –
with her state of being a mother who has forgotten what she loved to wear the most –
maybe a saree or a similar kurti to mine?
She smiles hearing the jingles of my jhumkas
while the loose ends of her tresses remain diligently tucked behind her ears
as she moved around the kitchen’s countertop packing our lunch boxes,
her empty earlobes, failing to denote the last time she had bothered
to adorn them with earrings.
On days like these where I return home
after spending more than half of the day outside,
her womanhood is at odds with her state of being a mother-
who endeavored to recollect the last time she set foot out in the daylight
to do something she’d take delight in;
but only ends up telling me how she couldn’t even sleep in the noon
knowing her daughter was not at home and how she ran some errands
and bought some snacks for the evening on her way back home
after picking her son up from school.
On days like these where I keep my room’s door mostly shut,
pulling at my hair while sitting at the study table with mugs of coffee-
that have no trace of milk much to my mother’s dislike;
her womanhood is at odds with her state of being a mother
when she lingers outside the room more than enough for me
to catch her silhouette slithering back and forth-
from the corner of my eye;
as the longing to travel back in time to pursue the dreams she’d woven,
while scribbling at the back of her notebook sitting in the front row-
ruefully throbs at the back of her mind and nevertheless she proceeds
to prepare what I like for breakfast, lunch, and even dinner.
On days like these where the mellowness in my tone thaws into a cacophony
of reasoning and rancor to secede from norms that I failed to make sense of;
my mother’s womanhood is at odds with her state of being a mother,
upon whose silence I’ve laid a siege-
in order to have it torn up by the roots while the words-
that dissolved on her tongue, despite desiring to cross the threshold,
of decades of conditioning,
echoed in waves of wordlessness in my ears,
her gaze never retreated from resembling my rage –
or was it I who resembled her rage?
On days like these where I jostle through crowds on my own
without holding my mother’s pinkie while she fails to keep up
with my pace and huffs; her womanhood is at odds-
with her state of being a mother when we pass by a fuchka stall,
and she slows down on purpose, pausing in her tracks little by little
until I look over my shoulder, her younger self gleefully giggles,
as she marvels at a mundane plate of fuchkas-
in the middle of a random footpath, savoring the savoury of each-
while her motherhood stands steady,
ready to grip my hand in any moment
of unannounced menace.
On days like these where heartbreak finds its way back
to belligerently settle between the barely healed cracks of my heart;
my mother’s womanhood embraces her state of being a mother –
when her daughter’s attempts at finding love went all in vain
just like hers did;
while I prick at my own skin questioning the ways
in which they left me unloved-
and she sits with a waning smile,
on one of the distant brinks of the bed,
trying to hush an ache –
that once violently coursed through her own veins.