Inadequate Seeking Adequate

Eyes lowered
And lips painted,
Daughter hides
Beneath her bridal sari.
Have you seen such fabric?
True Indian silk!
The finest of dyes
Color richer than pomegranates.
Her hands are folded
Mirror images of lotuses
The mehndi is dark burgundy
Bursts of flowers
Whorls and curves
Merging into her skin.
A complexion so fair
(The moon would be jealous!)
Young skin all the way
Down to her silver anklets
Listen to the soft
Shudder of their bells.
Her stomach is smooth, slim
The navel so deep
It could hold a spoonful of
Cinnamon butter
Have you ever seen such bangles?
They were once her mother’s,
But Daughter now wears them;
And you could have
Both bangles and bride.

Look! She peers at you
From under her head cloth
Eyes of a doe
Sweet, modest, shy
She does not make a sound.
She does not protest.
She will not protest.
Such a treasure
Pays for its own bride price.
Such a thing
Could be your own.

(My dear beti needs a home
She is eldest of five girls.
She is a good girl
And deserves
All the things that
Baba could not provide.)

© copyright by Yeeva Cheng, 2010

Mama

Something wasn’t right.
My daughter was doodling happily at the end of the shadowed hall, creating transparent outlines in pale chalk on the grey walls and floor.
“Mama?”
She saw me and beamed. She stood up, a brief phantom in a pale nightdress, and raised her chalk. Look what I can do, her sparkling eyes said as she outlined wobbly bricks in front of her. The pale pink and blue lines perched precariously in the air. She waved for me to come.
“Mama?”
A hint of puzzlement crept into her voice. A stick of peach chalk distracted her from her frown, and she drew another row of her chalk wall. I hesitated and stepped closer to her. The shadows in the hall lengthened. Every step closer took me farther away, and I sprinted forward, trying desperately to outrun eternity. The darkness curled around her, salivating shadows and breathing terror.
“Mama!”
Suddenly I was in front of her, and the wall of chalked bricks stood between us. She doodled little white flowers on the floor, and they sprouted up beneath her hand. I tried to walk through the wall of pale bricks, but it held firm. The darkness bled between the stones and hung like dirty laundry on a line. I pressed my hands against it, trying to force my fingers between the crooked lines of a child’s imagination. She turned away from me, drawing, ever drawing her pale blossoms. I pounded helplessly on the bricks, calling her name, but she did not hear me. The malevolent darkness ripped at my fingers and my throat until they bled with twilight.
“Mama—”
She stood and looked proudly at her blossoming creations. She turned to me, a sparkle in her eye and flowers in her fist, and saw the fear in my face. She dropped the flowers and they withered, crumbling to brown dust as the ravenous dark licked them.
“Mama! Mama!”
Then the bricks were tumbling down on top of me, and the dust of her meadow rushed to me in a great tide of death.
“Mama—no, Mama!”
I fought against the bricks, but they wrapped themselves around me and pressed themselves against my face, and I felt that I was drowning in a sea of chalk, suffocating in a meadow of sandy corpses.
“Mama! Mama, wake up! Mama!”
I took a deep gasp of air and shot upright in bed, dizzy and breathless. She was standing beside me, pulling at the sleeve of my nightgown. I sighed in relief and gathered her to my chest. I pressed my lips to her hair, and I did not want to let her go.
“Mama, I’m thirsty.”
Her relief was evident, and her big brown eyes gazed solemnly up at me. I smiled, took her hand, and led her into the kitchen. Her bare feet padded softly against the floor, and she pressed against my leg as the darkness loomed.
“Mama, I’m scared. It’s dark in here.”
I picked her up and fumbled for the switch on the wall. Light flooded into the far corners, rendering a hungry dark powerless.
“Is that better, Yuki?”
She nodded. She burrowed her head against my neck and said in a muffled voice, “I love you, Mama.” I smiled. “I love you, too.” I stopped to find the next light switch, and Yuki turned her head so her mouth was next to my ear.
“Mama, is Daddy coming home?” she whispered.
“No, Yuki, he can’t. He’s...busy.”
“Oh.”
She used to ask “when” Daddy was coming home.
I sat her on the kitchen counter and warmed milk on the stove. She smiled and wriggled her feet in time to the bubbling of the stove, her fears forgotten. I gave her a glass, and we drank quietly and rested in each other’s company. Yuki slipped her little hand into mine, and stars danced in her merry eyes. I smiled back and kissed her cheek; I wished the darkness would never feed on the light in her face.
“Come on, Yuki. Time for bed.” We walked down the grey halls together, and Yuki shut her eyes against the darkness that swallowed the light.

© copyright by Isabelle Lahaie, 2010