haldi and to forget

“you’re too young to smell like
cigarette smoke,”
her fingers, coated in haldi,
pick up the crumpled clothes as they
slip off my skin.
“like something that’s forgotten.” my Mother murmurs.

yesterday, her fingers weren’t yellow.
they danced around a bill receipt,
74 rupees plus taxes.
they creased it into a paper boat,
and the monochromatic numbers
dulled into something else.
yesterday, the faint scent of
wet leaves and alcohol
didn’t play at her breath,
and she didn’t wear a salwar kameez
that hid the mole
on her left shoulder.
yesterday, when a soft tune
escaped her lips,
her voice stretched to a falsetto
instead of remaining quiet
before it cracked,
and in the glow
of her bed-side bulb,
she unhooked the heavy jhumkas
that weighed down her delicate skin.

today, I murmur back.
“you’ve lived too long
to smell like you’ve
forgot how to.”