Photo by Abhijith S Nair
My mother doesn't know tables.
She burns her hand
on the tawa
to make two rotis each night.
One for my father who coughs
like a dog crying for bones to
suck on.
One for me.
I couldn't gift her a tong
on her last birthday.
Cough syrups
don't come cheap.
She adorns herself
every Karwa Chauth
praying for the man
who lost all his gambles in life.
She is his biggest ace.
She sucks him every night.
Her beauty paints the skies.
She applies kajal and conceals
her dark circles to stop
cars on the highway.
She pleases different men
every night.
Some rape her.
Some fall in love with
her innocent eyes.
If only my mother knew tables;
things would have been different for her.
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