Mother Takes Molly Home

by Lelawattee Manoo-Rahming

 

On the evening I saw a jet trail orange-pine

in a bluejay blue sky, I thought of you. It was the Great Mother

swirling, with love, two strands of hair into one curl.

I knew she was braiding Brahma and Jehovah to make you

whole       once more – a little Indian girlbaby suckling

at my nani’s breasts which smelled of cows and burnt cane,

though you could not know it then.

One time, we looked at a photo of you, black and white,

smooth-faced, pretty in your midcalf fit and flare dress. No sari

for you, a fifties fashionable teenager. You said you never

liked living in Curepe. I asked why. You answered, “I just didn’t.”

I did not press you. But now I think

you couldn’t voice the words to speak of the stink

of unmarketable tomatoes rotting in the fields

amid odorous piles of cow dung; or to tell me about the boys

who tried to pull down your panty. You were a strong eleven-year-old

and they had no bookbags. You swung yours, filled with books,

like Hanuman’s Mace – the boys scattered like Rawan’s foot soldiers.

You never felt safe after that

Perhaps, when you got the Civil Service job, it was the way

your colleagues snickered when they spoke of “dem coolie people” –

three little word-daggers mutilating your self-esteem, so when you looked

at your neighbours, you felt shame. Then you became a Witness and married

a young David. Did he heal your scars when he took you away?

Did Uncle David’s africaness veil your coolieness?

Years later, for the first time, you cooked curry mango –

fragrant julie spiced with karapule. You were hesitant.

There was no need: it was moreish, like your coconut ice-cream

that we hand-cranked, our young mouths watering;

and your icebox cream-of-wheat cake, tasty like halwa.

On your last morning, you could not eat, you complained of heartburn.

That night, as you clutched your breaking heart,

no one else roamed your house         Except the Goddess

She caught you as you fell and cradled your body, humming a lullaby.

The evening I saw the jet trail, my heart soared.

I watched you re-bloom into my radiant Tanty Molly. I thank

the Goddess for making you whole, for taking you home.