Saloni Chowdhury
INHERITANCE
Pearly white tiles, gilded with alkaline stains, feel cold under my feet. The sink stares at me, its body, an inverted dome that gives way into a gaping hole. I watch the water fall and slide along the walls, swirling into the pit of filth. Jealousy, remarked my mother. Genetics, she believed, when she’d notice my eyes that spoke the dull colors of father’s.
The showerhead cranes its neck towards the tub. Doesn’t it hurt to watch my nape submerged in water, resting on the smooth rim? Of course it does. That's why you spit on me so much, collapsing my body into the depths of the bath.
My mother believed that I know that feeling better than anyone. And she was right. I do know what it is like to be the showerhead. After all, she was the one who taught me to strain and strain my neck into a pipe.
Wet hair slithers down my back, its tails curling around my calves. Foam floats on cold water, bearing dirt. Mother said my waist is too thick for a girl, shoulders too broad to fit into dresses, hips too narrow for bearing children.
But I am a woman.
Even if my hands are too big, even if my breasts speak otherwise, even if my voice cracks and splinters like my father's,
I am still a woman.
back to contents
prev
next