Job

It was our job
To carry it to the verandah
On Tuesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays-
the other days she would wet her hair
sprinkling few drops on her head so she could pray
Our first lesson that rules could be modified, if not broken

Those three days were different-
The hair wash was an elaborate ritual
Beginning with the coconut oil bubbling over a fire in a brass pot,
Mixed with fenugreek seeds for thickness,
henna leaves for smoothness
and curry leaves for colour

Then came the application; a ceremonial procedure in itself-
The hair parted into lanes and turns,
the warm elixir poured
and the pressure points pressed
‘So the parts inside remain cool like a well-oiled machine,’ she’d say
And we’d watch and learn.

An hour later came the shower –
a mix of amla*, bringhraj**, shikakai*** and liquorice
applied, instead of soap
Take care of it and you’ll never have to complain,’ she’d say
When we wondered why hers was black
and mom’s needed colouring

The orange chair
On which Ammuma* sat to dry her hair-
We inched it to the right and then to the left
Half in the sun and half in the shade
Until we heard her say, ‘It’s fine. Stop!’
From where she stood on the black marble porch

in a starched cotton drape
and a muslin towel tied at her nape
‘The perfect spot’ we called it
As we waited for her to descend
A concoction of fragrances-
henna, shikakhai, lifebuoy and ponds dream-flower*

There she’d sit in the dappled sunlight
Bathed in the rays overlooking the gates
and untie the muslin knot
Down they would tumble
her tresses, over the orange webbing
and the white metal arms, drops sparkling like diamonds on the chair

And from her perch, she’d warmly smile
at friends and visitors who crossed the gates
And acknowledge
the residents of the house as they left for the day
That included us when we went to school
A quarter jingling in our pockets for the good job done-

‘Our secret,’ she called it with a wink
On Saturdays, we got our turn
‘Our special treat,’ we called it-
to sit on the chair,
overlooking the gates
after Ammuma was done

The orange chair
on which Ammuma sat to dry her hair
now sits on the black marble ties looking forlorn
Part in the shade and part in the sun
A piece of our childhood, Ammuma
and the days of yore before we grew up.