In an alternate universe where my mother loves me for who I am
Akshita Krishnan
i.
This is where your dreams will come true. With the sunspots behind your eyes, you will teach me to hold a knife the way you do. In tandem, we will chop onions for the bhajji without crying, and I still loop in between your legs, listening to the oil splatter across the stove. Here, nestled in a variation of our time, neither of us betray each other because I never come out to you.
ii.
Welcome, it is warm. In August, with its string lights, and meteors, and poppies, and fireworks, you do my hair on the porch of our duplex, your hands slick with Parachute coconut oil, and we are laughing for the first time. The air is thick, muggy with my sweat, and I feel the humidity curl my braid like yours. My hair does not thin, and my body doesn’t change; that is to say, I do not look like you.
iii.
On Sundays, we are reimagined. Curled into patches of sunlight, you come alive, humming to Ilayaraja songs as you reminisce on every wistful memory. We indulge in smooth, pulpy mango juice, and play round after round after round of Rummy where you let me win (I pretend not to notice). When you look at me, I do not see the resentment behind your eyes, and you peel my oranges like you have always loved me.
iv.
You’ve got buttons in your eyes. It is the first thing I see, sitting on the counter, palming white chocolate with my grubby fingers, watching you get ready. You pleat a navy blue saree, and turn to me to check that it’s even. I cannot say that I do not recognize you, so I say nothing at all.
v.
I am lying to you. I do not know if you can read into it, like you always can, but I hope, this once, when I say her name, you will forget about it. Inside, underneath crosswebs, I am hiding from you, immersed in an eclipse.
vi.
It’s Christmas. Or Diwali. Or that time in between, where everything feels glassy-eyed, and there are always lights up at houses that you have never lived in before. You are sitting at the table, a small, scuffed tablecloth with the China from your mother or her mother or her mother, and you cut your food in meticulous intervals to make it look like you are actually eating. Your sadness blankets the room until all I can feel is its mildewy scent, coiling ropes down my throat. I scoop heapfuls of cantaloupe onto your plate, and beg that you can hear my silent apologies.
Akshita Krishnan is a Tamilian writer studying Economics at Smith College. She is an alumna of the Kenyon Young Writers' Workshop & the inaugural cohort of the SUNHOUSE Literary Mentorship. Her works have been recognized by the Alliance for Young Artists and Writers, Girls Right the World, Atlas and Alice, & more. In her free time, she tries to hit new bench press PRs, walks her dog, struggles to solve connections, and works on a short story collection titled Sometimes, In Low Light, On Our Couch.
