THE FOLLOWING POEM WAS SELECTED IN WINGWORD POETRY PRIZE 2023 LONGLIST.

I open my wardrobe every day to see,

A septate of saris, a dozen bangles, and some bindis,

And some traditions my mother has imparted,

Like how each morning her frail flame restarted.

Mom, you have grown old now

Yet you do the same every day and how!

The buttery skin of your hands has peeled off,

Scrubbing father's many white shirts, creating cracks and troughs.

Oh Mama! you bled profusely,

During your menses and while birthing me,

Yet even on those days, you cooked rice and five curries,

To feed all males in the house, who were always in a hurry.

The soot from the smoke had deposited in your lungs,

Your face had lost its glow and darkened your lips and tongue,

Dear Mamma, why did you blow the hollow pipe so hard?

The chulha had sucked your youth and made your dreams charred.

Mum, why do you forget things?

And what could possibly pull your heartstrings?

The keys are still inside the lock and so are many more.

You are still wearing the spectacles you are searching for.

The sun has set and yet you don't rest,

I know you want to be the best,

Daughter-in-law, Wife, Sister-in-law, and Mummy,

But your bones are now porous and your mood is not as sunny.

Mum, don't worry about me or my sister,

Take notice of your hair fall and all your blisters,

Don't worry about the Kheer getting burnt,

Remember the motivational stuff you have learned.

Maa, now stop it! You have done enough,

You don't have to be that tough,

Your mitochondrial DNA has slowly penetrated me and grew,

And somehow I am becoming you.

I don those saris, those bangles, and bindis,

To be a good daughter-in-law, wife, sister-in-law, and mummy,

I cook every day five curries,

And I keep my head refilled with worries.

My face has changed from twilight to the new moon,

I think I am shedding skin soon,

And I am slowly forgetting things, I think it's your DNA, Moma,

I had forgotten I was an individual in all this drama.