By Lakshidha Mallappan
The shampoo doesn’t smell the same,
baby powder wafts in its stead,
a comb finds knots in the netted dark,
tugs and frees as the hair pulls taut,
cries penetrating the bathroom walls,
and the comb is abandoned once more.
crib occupied and quiet snores,
only the routine left to resume,
back to the sink - now curled with the comb,
not hair but body folded upon itself,
hands drawn in fine lines,
not only her palmar creases.
pulling like adhesive dried,
like the childhood pastime,
distraught counting ensues,
a ritual of late,
was it more than three hundred?
whimpers do not exaggerate.
twisting to make a ringlet,
she looks to a place to discard,
wall or drain, wall and drain,
now the same,
one to break against,
other to slither through.
damned by hormones,
by a body that bore life,
she demands restitution,
holding out in her palms,
wisps not sentient but still responsive,
to the winds she’s walked in the past.
The child loudly announces once more,
indignant;
Its presence ignored for too long.
the tumbleweed of hair cascades down,
and she moves with the comb,
tucked well into her gown.
she makes quick work of the damp cloth,
milky from covering her bosom,
pouted lips hurriedly latch on,
suckling breast, ample and full.
her hand travels up, empty and scant,
hand travels down, two beats of a song.
before her a mirror mocks,
and humpty dumpty broken to bits,
laughs from the pages on the floor.
his vanity ironically preserved,
for child, mother and him now identical,
hair fine, barely observed.
her single hair tie,
now a requiem,
of an assortment,
she held in the before.
she need only wrap it once in the past,
gathering hair that reached her pinafore.
she thinks to herself,
If she could ever be cruel,
ever make a deal with the devil,
for what she’s asking to restore,
her pride, her joy, her life,
has not a thing to do with her child.
she asks herself again,
but there is no answer,
only the gentle breaths,
of life to her neck,
but she still does not know,
whether she is cruel afterall.