By Pritika Rao
how will my daughter wash her hair?
will she fetch water from the village pump as my grandmother did?
or pull it up from the well like my mother?
will she have enough hibiscus and jasmine
to put in her braids, tuck behind her ear, or stick in a bun?
i would like to leave her a legacy of family recipes
with the goodness of fruit and leaves --
coconut and amla to oil it,
bhringraj to thicken it,
neem to clean it,
and shikakai to colour it.
i spend nights writing them down -
measurements to go in the mortar and pestle
to be boiled, pureed and distilled.
will she ever know the thick black rivers of a glistening mane?
or as the trees are decimated,
will every strand shrivel in a chemical wasteland
and her scalp run dry?
without the dirt in her fingers,
how will this young child of mine grow roots,
how will she learn to blossom and flower, then rest and recover,
without the laden boughs
and the wise hands of her mother?
Pritika Rao is an economist and freelance writer from Bangalore. Her works of fiction have been published in Adda and The Bangalore Review, while my poetry has appeared in Gulmohur Quarterly, Madras Courier and The Alipore Post, among others.
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