Braids

By Gayatri Ramakant Nandini Halde

My reflection over a leaf and flowers of jasmine over my head, what do I look like mother? Do I appear like your

bridesmaids or the time when you fell into the well? The sun rays peeping through the tree branches or the

ducks in the pond? Or the veil you’ve once worn? My nails painted with fluorescent colours, do I remind you of

thunders? I broke a flower vase, you didn’t even know. A wretched wretched thing I am, mother.

Wearing a pink gown and dancing with a gentleman in the garden. Soft blurred memory I made in my mind but

mother you were still cruel like snow in winter.

Two owls outside my window, they scared me mother. Like a graveyard their stare was cold yet eternally

comforting; mother, you appear like longing to me. Yearning of generations. A miserable thing like me. You’re

laying down mother. I fear what you will dream. Will it be the anger you have kept for years or the longing you

have carried since my birth. I am cruel, mother. I am cruel enough to bite my tongue under my teeth and crawl

down the bed. Mother, I wanted to build a scarecrow. In the garden of ours and I wanted to put your longing on

its head.

Do you remember it mother? The perfume you gave me? I burnt it. I wanted to run away mother I wanted to go

home. I wanted to burn down the house I have survived in yet mother, I wanted to save you. From me. From

them. From you.

The cake I baked, do you remember it? I added vanilla in it. Because you hated chocolate. I put strawberries on

top of it for mother you have always been five feet away from darkness.

I want to scream mother. I want to scream. I am not particularly sad but mother I want to become a monster

and devour my own heart. I want to be pure, mother. I want to be loved by you.

But I feel like a wolf; caged one. Black and white under the moon I cry to you but why won’t you hear me? I am

clearly crying when you look at me with that same longing in your eyes. And same yearning for something that

doesn’t exist yet- or perhaps has existed for centuries.

But mother look at me. Look at the moon. Look into the lake and look at your reflection, mother.

We are the same.

Mother, I want to go home. I have called you many times now. But- but mother I want to go home now. Go

home to you.

Mother, would you love me if I was drenched in reds? Would you love me still if I was touched by blues? I don’t

look for lilies and bells but a rose. A red one. Mother. I see my broken reflection in the mirror. Am I made of

longing too? Is it too late to realise that? Tell me mother. Tell me.

And take me somewhere far. Far far away from this yearning of years. My eyes hurt now and they’re heavy too.

But who do I cry to?

Do I even deserve my tears? What do I deserve, mother?

Do you get tired of listening to me, mother?

I am a mad dog. I bite what hurts me. I want to devour my own heart. Listening to my loved ones I want burn

away. To curl up in blues and rot away in hues, mother. I want to stay away.

Mother your braids slit my girlhood. For I can never be me. For I have always sinned. For my blood boils over

the anger and it hurts to let it all melt away. I stutter as I speak, and does that make me weak? For I hold this

sword and touch the thorns, how am I weaker? I am not after all. The time passes and my words become bold.

I shatter the heart that I hold. I hold it to keep it safe but what am I supposed to do when my throat is cut open

and my girlhood cries on the floor? What am I supposed to do when my mother’s braids slit my girlhood?

By Gayatri Ramakant Nandini Halde