Photo credits: pickpik.com

I LOVE OILING MY MOTHER’S HAIR

I love oiling my mother’s hair.
It’s a feeling akin to that if god let you look out for him for once,
instead of it being the other way around.
Whenever she oils my hair, she does it with so much care;
slow and steady, under the garish sun, gentle like snow in those peak winter months.
Her hands comb through my hair as tendrils of it fall to the ground;
here, there, everywhere.
We usually sit under an old mango tree, trying to hide from the sun’s glare.
I squint my eyes and she spreads her pashmina-like wings to shield me
but sunshine seeps in still, backlighting the thread count.
We laugh at our futile gestures while the golden oil drips, seeping into the ground.
And amongst the winter cacophony of blabbermouth bees,
the mango nectar drips, too, from the points of this treacherous tree.
The oil mixes in with the nectar;
coconut, olive, almond, mustard and castor.
It all suffers so well in this wooden bowl,
with this contemptuous heat, becoming whole.
Not too much heat though, we haven’t crossed seasons yet;
haven’t reached the fruit flies or the cool summer breeze.
We’re still a little too cold as she rubs her hands and puts the remnants onto my face,
pink cheeks like splattering pomegranates, she goes over my eyes and I’m instantly drowsy.
It’s one thing however,
that my mother has never let me put oil in her hair and
another, that I’ve always had to beg her to put it in mine.
But now as we reach summer, and nature has laid everything bare,
baby mangoes among powdery flowers,
it is finally I, who oils her hair.
On this warm, mid-august evening,
when everything is humid and sweaty,
her head has started hurting.
We first try a cold compress, wrapped in a maroon towel.
She half-lays on the sofa with closed eyes,
and soon water drips over her shoulder, no relief from the melting ice.
We try a bunch of different methods then,
ginger tea and ibuprofen,
when at last, I offer to massage her head fully expecting her to refuse.
But she agrees, instantly so
and I hate that she’s getting old,
old enough to be accepting help.
So I bring over a bottle of olive oil and begin massaging her head,
the pads of my fingers move in silence, trying to show as much love and care.
I then massage her neck because she tells me nani used to do that
whenever her head hurt as a child,
(must be an acupuncture point)
and I can’t help but think I’m paying off a debt,
by taking care of her most beloved child.
Next, I comb her hair, making sure the teeth touch her scalp.
It’s good for blood circulation and might help with this persistent pang.
Every few minutes, she asks me to stop,
I might get too tired
and yet her eyes are closed, in what I hope is sweet comfort.
Finally, I start braiding her hair like she did mine,
carefully going over the knots and mocking her like she did,
back in our time.
More the knots in your hair, the more anger issues you have!
She laughs.
(I love you)
(I love you)
(I love you)
I hope your headache feels better now.
It does, thirty-forty percent better!
I reach over for the hair tie,
and my elbow topples the bottle of oil.
But it’s okay cause she’s okay,
and I clean up the sofa that is soiled.
I beam at her when she gets up to throw away the fallen hair strands,
it feels so good to care for her, even for just an instance.
I tell her, I love oiling your hair,
you should let me do it more often.
She doesn’t say anything,
and we only smile in each other’s silent presence.
I feel like god has finally let me look out for him for once,
has finally let me care,
I love oiling my mother’s hair.
I love oiling my mother’s hair.
I love oiling my mother’s hair.

 

IN THIS HOUSE WHERE I’M MISSING
 

In this house where I’m missing,
food is an afterthought.
The kitchen smells like nothing,
not even leftover rice and dal.
curry leaves, mango chutney
with dried pomegranate seeds
and aam ka aachaar
No groceries have been bought
and human touch— it is so, so scarce,
so scarce, oh god, I’m starved.

I haven’t cooked in so long,
I reckon if loneliness has taken all the joy out of it.

My feet hover over the ground as I walk,
and the dim light from the kitchen calls,
you haven’t stepped in, in so long
come, make a salad, I’ve got celery stalks
The rotten basil by the sink has begun to dry.
I, at least, should put some water but
is it the lack of water or loneliness that’s robbing it of life?

Dust covers the kitchen table and the
checkered plates that haven’t been cleared.
I’m hungry and alone;
wish I could cook with someone near—
hear the familiar sizzle of crackling mustard seeds,
burnt garlic wafting through the chimney
and someone, coming up from behind, to hug me.

There’s also an old jug with mouldy water,
forest green over shiny copper.
I’m thirsty.
I’m thirsty for pink tea and infused water and
later, parched to cut fruit for someone
and eat it together.
I’m starved to cook
and have them load the dishwasher.

To have tea out in the back garden,
or balcony
with homemade almond cookies, and sprinkles
of khus khus
Much, too much food
to eat together, sitting side by side
in the company of my dim kitchen light.

To come back after a long day to this house
and find someone waiting.
Who do I call to come home?
To come back early and wait for them.
Come home
Who do I say this to?
Here, I’ve cooked
The kitchen smells like my mother’s cooking.
I’m cooking
all of your favourites
Come home, I’ve cooked