by Simone Rajput
I colour your hair
every Saturday
And you shake your head
when I say
this is not needed anymore.
No need to cover the grey
that proves you have been here a while,
the lines on your face
that count your every smile.
When you sigh at this old house’s
broken pipes and creaky floors,
After a long work day,
you slam your door,
and say “it’s fine.”
“I’m not hungry.”
The salt and pepper that grows
out of your scalp;
it is like a map
of all the recipes
you never taught me.
I live in a dorm now.
and I cook alone now.
And this kitchen only smells of
salt and pepper;
your cardamom and mirchi powder
your ginger and haldi—
they are all missing.
And all that is here now
is salt and pepper.
But it is not yours,
And I am not sure if I am still yours.
You ask me when I am coming home,
“Ghar khab aoge?”
Tears garnish my cheeks—
Coconut oil streaks on your knees after you finish massaging my head—
When I tell you it’ll take a little longer,
I hear you whisper “ghar rota hai.”
The house cries.
“Me bhi, Ma.”
Me too, Ma.
When I walk to class and hear an international student
Speaking Hindi to someone,
It’s almost like my ears zoom in,
Sucking up the sound
Trying to keep it bound
In my head.
When I sit down
And look at the aloo chole and basmati rice
On my plate
I sniff it and wait
For that fragrance that comes from the food you make.
It never arrives.
Feels like my hair is greying,
Waiting to feel at home
Away from home.
But I will still colour your hair.
Do you know that you do not have to colour your hair?
That I wish you would simply
Wear these silver strands like the diamonds that you wish
Your husband would buy you.
Had coming to this country
given you what you wished it would.
Had loving this house
given you what you wished it would.
Had salt and pepper resembled
the same spices
and hugs on my tongue
that I wish it would.