INHERITANCE
-
Nalini Priyadarshni (India)
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
kept each misery wrapped
neatly in a grudge
each anguish tucked safely
in a spool of fire and 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
turns to ashes 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 in the mirror.
If only I had something
clever to write home
Or lores of magnanimity
but everything I touch
turns odiously mundane
except the bitterness
nesting on my tongue
****