//TW
My mother notices
blood stains on my t-shirt.
I tell her every lie; it’s a
pimple, or periods - or paint!
Yes, paint. I was painting a
woman in red with a queen’s
smile. But Maa, I cannot
draw the lips. I cannot.
My hand bends in all the
wrong directions. The strokes
arch at all the wrong angles.
There is not enough space
and it is so, so frustrating!
She smiles at me in
silence, searching my eyes, my
face, both of which are
heavily guarded with troops
you could take to battle,
threatening at times to retreat.
But the fortress stands tall —
the soldiers are emotionally
involved, and the fortress
stands tall, ever more so
in front of her. And the
Princess is safe — oh just so, so
safe.
There is a leakage
behind my mother’s
eyes that I cannot fix. I
am still in protest, flinching
away from her touch but
not too visibly. Her hands
do not know where it
hurts, and I am constantly
afraid of my veils getting
lifted up. But that
doesn’t happen. Her grip
loosens, her hands move
to my face, ruffling my hair,
in warmth, in love, her hands
stay as if it is the last time
they will know a daughter’s touch.
As if I am all but fleeting.
“You are my dil, jaani.
My firstborn, you are
my life. I am so, so
worried about you.
Please do not distance
yourself from me.”
My laughter is heavy
on my throat, even more
so on my chest, but I tell her
almost immediately. I say —
don’t be worried, Maa.
Look! I am here, so close
to you. Look, I am right
here. So, so close
to you.
( I am not.
I am not.
I cannot explain, but
if I do, my pain will
break you. )
- Priyanshi Arya
B.A. (H) Philosophy
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