by Vivek Sharma

THE HAIRCUT REVOLUTION

When Pa’s cousin’s wife Rati got a boy-cut haircut, all fifty villages,
clan’s nearly all five thousand tongues christened her possessed.
I was seven, city-bred. My younger sister had Afro curls on her head.
We were spending the summer with grandma at our ancestral shed.
I recall the Monday when grandma’s sister trekked nine miles. As she kept
God Shiva’s fast on Mondays, she arrived hungry and angry. She wept

all the way, chastising many Gods for betraying her. She wept,
and howled so loud, we heard her from miles away. The villages
grappled with what she confessed: Her son was trapped. He kept
a veil-less wife, who rode a scooter like a harlot. “Must be possessed”,
grumbled the villagers. Decades later, the haircut seems a watershed
event. The villagers now go to salons and carry no veils on their head.

Back then, hair stayed under a veil, scissors never scaled a female head.
Grandma’s third sister, who lived close by, joined them as they wept,
and cursed their husbands (long dead). “While Ma lives in a cowshed,
that whore lives in a townhouse! After bahu‘s haircut, all villages
are spitting thu-thu at us. To save face, lets prove Rati is possessed.
Find an ash-filled locket, below a pillow or in a pocket, sneakily kept

by one bahu couldn’t suspect. Blame a promise made, but not kept
to the fertility Goddess, or make a doctor say there’s a defect in head”.
The sisters said women killed, eloped or wore jeans when possessed.
Grandma said, contact the ‘ojha’ (witchdoctor), for his tantra swept
evil spirits away, and “his mantras are feared in lakhs of villages”.
Grandma’s sis spoke of a woman, who visited the ojha‘s shed

with her nav-bahu. After noticing ojha’s leers, nav-babhu avoided the cowshed
by faking headaches. The ojha sent a pinch of ash to “cure her”. Nav-bahu kept
that ash aside, later applied on a buffalo’s forehead. Through the villages
the beast sped, broke through a wall to halt at the ojha‘s bed. My head-
strong Grandma dismissed this as tale, and proclaimed: “Enough we’ve wept.
Let’s go and beat the devi’s lalten lamps out of that hussy’s head. Possessed

my ass! She needs a hiding and your son needs some too”. “Hush! Possessed
we’ll call her, said grandma’s sister. “Or she’ll turn to police, and in court, shed
who knows what skins”. Third whispered: “Claim we’ve progressed! We’ve wept
enough. In this kali-yuga of train and TV, do you think old notions will be kept?”
Scowled the oldest, “Hush! Have you turned senile, or straw fills your head?
Let the sinners rot in the atheist cities, the virtuous like us will prosper in villages”.

Indoors, my Ma silently wept. My sis held up her Afro cut, “Ma, am I possessed?”
Ma smiled, “No bayta! In villages, bhoot (ghost / past) survives, tears are shed,
veils are kept. After Rati’s revolt, I expect hairdos will adorn every buffalo’s head”.

THE SAGA OF NAANIJI’S DAAL 

Ignorant call it daal, lentil,
a soup of pulses. Skill
and love, two difficult
ingredients go into it
and trust me, licking
fingers, plates, pans
to an Oliver Twist
cleanliness,
asking for more,
happens each time.

Frustrated sons, cousins,
daughters, neighbors,
grandsons, nieces,
daughters-in-law or bahus,
CIA, ISI, KGB spies,
all watch as she makes
what none can emulate.

Networks, reporters,
try every trick and wit,
but the mystery persists.

Ignorant call it daal,
a spicy North Indian dish,
trust me, its an mystical
experience. Each drop
brings gasps, sighs, smiles,
and nobody can get
enough of it. We sulk
as our stomachs give up,
and breathing gets difficult.
But the heart wants more.

Down to the drops of oil,
the milliseconds of stirring;
names of farms or stores
that supply coriander, garlic
onion, cumin; the type of wood
burned for cooking; the color
of the flame, grip on ladle;
the make, age of steel pans,
documented, emulated. But all miss
the effect she effortlessly gets.

I think, its her wrinkled
grin, her twinkling eyes
that accentuates the taste.
The mole on her upper lip
trembles as she dangles
the ladle before you with joy.
The fact that all her kin
want to inherit her skill,
but can’t, pleases her
keeps her bones moving.

Maybe she is a mythical
creature, and divulging
her secret will kill her!
Her daughters try anger,
spells, curses, silence,
nothing persuades her.
As a kid, I thought her perfect.
But after I got past thirty
I reluctantly began to see
an undeniable inadequacy.

I realised she was merciless
to her bahus (daughters-in-law).
All bahus left the village, except
the eldest who toiled in the fields,
stables, house and kitchen,
observed every ritual, honoured
Naniji’s whims, fulfilled requests
from her grandsons and guests.
Yet from Naniji flowed an incessant
criticism of the eldest bahu‘s habits.

Except for that, I thought Naniji perfect
and so did everyone who tasted what
ignoramus, bewkoof, call daal, lentil,
a vegan Indian dish. Pardon my hubris
I avow its nectar meant for the Gods.
After three years in the US, I craved
for Naniji’s daal like a desert vagrant
craves for bathwater, or a pilgrim, sufi,
for salvation. On return, I felt spurned
when I learned her bahu cooked the daal.

Plus I dreaded my Naaniji wrath,
for who could emulate that daal?
But in the first morsel I learned
after thirty-six years of service,
the bahu merited this inheritance.
Enchanted I looked up, chuckled
Naniji’s all wrinkles sniggered,
her bahu, my uncle, my Ma giggled.
Happily from then on I have savoured,
the reincarnated daal’s holy flavours.

Usha Akella, co-director of MATWAALA:
In its signature spirit of community welcoming established and upcoming poets, Matwaala 2018 took place in NYC. Matwaala’s Big Read was hosted by Asian American Writers’ Workshop (AAWW) on 26 September 2018. The participating poets this year were Usha Akella, Zilka Joseph, Ralph Nazareth, Varsha Saraiya-Shah, Ravi Shankar, Vivek Sharma and Pramila Venkateswaran. 2018’s Poet of Honour was Ralph Nazareth. There was also a reading with a feminist theme hosted by Bluestockings Bookstore in NYC.