Chaya or Kids

Afternoon Chaya on the stove, Amma wearily sits at the table, her hand within reach to
adjust the dial.

I want to be in my bedroom, listening to Virgin Radio’s top 10 English Pop hits of the hour--
silence is uneasy to live in.

Amma’s conviction fills the air, ‘When will you have kids?’, a frequent discussion point
having entered my mid-twenties.

Chaya simmers, concerns develop.
‘Motherhood completes a woman’ -- Amma’s slogan.
Chaya rises like fear in the world, never knowing Roshni, only as someone’s Amma.
‘Not willing to listen; like father, like daughter’
Amma’s conviction boils me.

From two, I learn to live amidst the screams of Dad angrily throwing toys at my weeping
Amma, dodging him behind the bed. I hide behind the crevice of the door frame whimpering
to stop.

Five, my parents wear me down before the world can with scolds and pinches under my arm.

Nine, being an only child makes me a therapist listening to Amma’s regrets on the sofa and
Dad’s naggings in the car.

From 18, I chug Pankacha Kasthuri like water to calm my heart palpitations, unable to bear
the brunt of Amma’s sacrifice.

I carry the weight of many burdens, burying more as they come. Am I willing to birth kids to
do the same?

Froth on the brink of the pot, temper seconds away from slipping my concerns,
Amma turns off the gas. It stops.
Chaya comes down, she strains the leaves, hands me a cup.
I sip it, let the warmth burn the words off my tongue.
My reasons will never be enough