Inheritance
If only Amma had clever things to say
or finesse or largesse to her credit
but she was odious in a mundane sort of way
driving us to dust and clean the house endlessly
we peeled raw mangoes fallen during the night to make
chutney by boiling them in jaggery syrup and condiments
hacked them into square pieces for aachar and danced
to old Hindi movie tunes on radio when she was away.
Saying no was not an option
especially when it came to food. If it was on the plate
we were expected to finish it to the last lick
or be held responsible for all starvation deaths in Africa
even before we could open our mouths in protest
her pitara of laments would fly open
brimming with tales of a motherless childhood,
an indifferent father, a wicked step mother and charitable relatives
she forgave no one, she forgot nothing
she kept each misery wrapped neatly in a grudge
each anguish tucked safely in a spool of resentment
carefully folding and stacking each wrong
life dealt her in the almirah by her bedroom
to be aired at regular intervals
she peppered our narratives liberally
with guilt for the cushy lives we lived
to camouflage the bitterness on her breath
Half a lifetime later, guilt and discontent are my inheritance
A stranger to acceptance, embarrassed by attention
I am stuck at forgotten crossroads
everything I remember changes when touched by sunlight
trapped in the safety of my home, I am unable to flush a toilet, for
men dying down in sewers come to haunt me late at night
I can hear Amma when I speak
she stares back when I look into the mirror.
If only I had something clever to write home
or lore of magnanimity
but everything I touch turns odiously mundane
except the bitterness nesting on my tongue.
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~ Nalini Priyadarshini
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