Honey And Chapatis

By Jess Doshi

My mother asked me

to stay away from you

even though she saw the smile

you brought was dipped

in honey and sugar

with no bees around.

My mother asked me to let you go

even though she knew

that you loved me more than

he ever could.

My mother asked me

to not let you touch me

even thought she knew

that the only touch we'd ever

want, was each others'.

My mother asked me

to do all these things because

she's scared of the guy

who first broke her heart.

His hair rustling in the wind

with words that you want to hear.

She knew what they said

in family gatherings and functions,

whispers behind her back

that her mother had to suffer.

"She won't get rishtas,"

they used to say.

But her mother hardened her

and told her not to bow down

in front of vultures and hyenas

who had nothing to spend time with.

So when my mother tells me

to do all these things I don't want to,

I defy her

hoping she would support me

the same way her mother did.

If Godforbid, it comes to that.

My mother is born of

not-so-round chapatis and

bowls filled with rice on cold plates.

Patriarchy and society

weighing her down.

But despite the weight,

I know she will stand with

her back completely straight.

As if nothing had ever

knocked her down.

By Jess Doshi