Sitara Khan
Mother Daughter
Enveloped in thick blanket of dark hair
scalp singing, tears rolling,
Clamped by her feet,
Between my mother’s legs I sit.
Tugging, pulling, her dainty hands oiled, combed and disentangled
their way through the unruly mass.
Ritualistic taming symbolised the plaits.
Weighed by tradition I struggled to free,
Of bob cut and hair-dressers salons I dared to dream.
School mates’ envy brought little relief.
My mother’s instinct whispered in my ear,
‘Mother’s loving milk has nurtured your hair,
In its lustrous length is woven the yarn,
From ancestral antiquity to now who I am.
With this dowry I do thee trust
which for other cares you must not neglect.’
The bonding tie between mother and daughter was such
that scissors of rebellion never could touch.
Page(s) 51
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