By Ankita Subba
Shame was the shroud my mother wore,
Cracking bones in a pool of blood.
Love—a coat, handwoven by my grandmother,
The woman they called a witch.
She broke curses on the kitchen table,
Her alchemy turned pain into threads of gold—
An unbroken lineage of silk that tied
Me to her, through my mother’s womb.
And now I inherit the instructions of madness:
That a woman is cursed when she comes of age.
Instruments of shame, of silence, of suffering
Mould my flesh into the same relic—
Deemed worthy of dignity, of honor,
To please their prying eyes.
I tell my mother, “I hate you.”
She says, “It’s a rite of passage.
These are hexes we all tell our mothers.”
But I know—with time,
We become what we despise.
The voice is mine, yet I echo her words.
My body embodies her walk,
And I find myself wincing at raw mangoes,
Just as she always did.
When they say I remind them
Of my mother at my age, I know—
To be a woman is to unravel,
To tangle and untangle,
In endless cycles—
Of pain, of love, of blood.
My brother was born bearing a gift.
We shared our childhood, but he bequeaths our home.
And I inherit the alchemy of the women before—
Of how to turn the blood between my legs
Into my second skin of shame, of guilt
Passed down through generations.
They said that blood is our curse—
The first bled with shame and told me I am a woman.
The second bled with impurity and insisted I am a woman.
The third bled with duty and celebrated I am a woman.
But my daughter, forgive me;
The water broke the curse,
The blood cleansed the sins.
Yours is the childhood and the house to keep.
Your great grandmother, the alchemist
Taught me love and pride; your inheritance.
Your blood, the gift, is yours to honour.
The golden thread is cut, and now
You weave the heirloom of your legacy.