Shruti Singh
shall I sit with you, maa?
I ask,
while the milk bubbles over the stove,
you say they add a lot of water now,
yet you skim the foam like it’s holy —
as if you're boiling Yamuna in a bowl.
you stir in saffron and ghee,
then press pistachios on top —
a sweet in the colours we salute.
and our home begins to smell
like a courtroom,
a police station,
a politician's drawing room.
I bet if ants could speak
they'd scream all the stories sugar hushed.
you cut the sweet into pieces —
squares like states,
big and small.
some with almonds,
some near the edge,
some fall to the floor.
I place that piece on a newspaper —
it has the headline about a farmer
who drank his debts
like pesticides,
and beneath a photo
of Justice Lady of India-
redesigned without her blindfold.
they say she sees clearly now,
or maybe they’re just
not afraid of being seen anymore.
in the corner, a celebrity
welcomes her newborn daughter,
and you guess the name —
like you once did
for your unborn son
even before the day
your daughter was born.
you’ve got a stain on your saree, maa —
your pretty Banarasi,
with peacocks and lotus motifs
woven into the pallu.
zari running along the border
like golden boundaries.
woven by hands
that never owned gold.
the stain sits too tight.
better give it to the maid, you say —
along with the sweet
that touched the floor.
you say she’s lucky —
reservations,
free ration,
even has a fridge now.
I’ve seen you give her my seat,
but never once ask her to sit.
she washes her hands
before she touches our home,
but the tap water stinks like eggs,
like coins,
like something already spent,
like prayers answered
by pipelines they never cleaned.
and the maid asks me,
is that how Ganga tastes now?
the feet of your god have lost their paint.
I hold the paint in my hand and wonder —
what shade do you repaint belief?
I choose the shade brighter
than my skin tone,
brighter than the colour of wheat,
of soil,
and even your rivers.
and suddenly, I realise —
this wasn’t the kitchen.
this wasn’t a recipe.
this was a country
serving pride in plates
and shame on the floor.
and you, maa —
you were never just my mother.
you were the nation
Our Bharat Maa,
their Bharat Maa!
and I,
I’ve been trying to sit with you
but you —
you never tried to stand up for me.