Eve Speaks of Her Childhood with Lilith

She never cared about the daintiness of her
fingernails. Father taught us to memorize
the same poems, made it all the more conspicuous.

Tutored me to dust and re-dust the alphabets,
took extra care to hold open the book. Bone-white
starched cotton pleats scratching my knees, I climbed

the staircase of words. Committed them to memory.
The meanings of which I did not always
remember. Or understand: yet never doubted

their correctness. Their power to sanction the ascent:
the terrace with the coconut leaves shaking in air,
the humming birds skirting the brick wall. Cute,

the neighbors would say, pinching my cheeks
between their fingers. I did not scream. In the other
room, across the hallway, she was inserting her

own lines in the space left white by authors. In those same
poems Father trained us to recite. A casual refusal to stand
up duringt he national anthem, and the conductor

of the children’s choir would not let her sing anymore.
She did not apologize, began to spend all her hours
in the narrows between the beds: hers and mine.

Scratching out the names of poets printed on page,
writing her own in the space she just emptied
for herself. Never the one to be afraid of

loneliness that accompanied disobedience, she
and I did not walk on the same pebbles of estrangement.

Lilith Speaks About Her Sister’s Reading Habits

We share a mother, a father,
a room, two windows, a door. And
a love for alphabets. She reads
open-mouthed like fish, eager
to swallow the bait, entangled
in the plot-lines. Who lives, who
dies. Who loves whom. Stories—mere,
straight and simple. A vow. A vow of
emptiness weighs on everything
she reads. There is an erasure
in obedience. A silence. A silence
that ensures survival. And robs one
of everything else. She never knew
how to demand anything more. More than
the ordinary love of a daughter. Than
the routine love of a sister. Than
the legitimate love of a wife. What
she reads is trapped in the orderly
boredom of lonely housewife-afternoons.
Like all fatigued but over-educated
housewives, she tries ro enchain
the roars of ocean-waves
in the intricate flowers of embroided
bedsheets. When she writes, she
writes in small lines. Delicate. Like
wax flowers on a porcelain vase. And
like brittle ceramic, they break. They
break. When million untold stories,
ache out of her bones, she
breaks. Eve. Breaks.

Eve’s Meltdown, According to the Maid-Servant

She paces up and down her room—smokes,
orders me to empty her ashtray. Her room, brimming
with the untouched, unnecessary. A new
blender on the kitchen-counter. An unopened
coffee-maker. A microwave gathering
cobwebs. A toaster that has been used only
once. Yet, her kitchen-table full of breadcrumbs.
Which no one cares enough to clean up. Hairs
tangled into a crow’s nest—untied, unoiled—she
picks up the comb. Throws it on the floor. Shatters
the mirror in rage—her husband has not wished
her Happy Birthday. Four years in a row. Eve
sits: tight-wrapped into coarse sheets, pillow covers,
cobwebs. Tries to read. But cannot. Keeps down
the book. She is morphing smaller everyday,
every hour, every minute, every second. Falling
apart, like a wilted leaf. I click
open the iron-gate. I sew her together: everyday, every hour,
every minute, every second. Wipe
the bread-crumbs off the table. Sweep off
the glass fragments. Tie her hair, wipe her face. Inside
my lips, a silent remembrance: bones on pebbles, skin
unraveling. Men tied to the back of the zamindar’s
horse-cart. Great-grandfathers. Mine. I put
this woman’s face in that place. No, this is not
sympathy. Nor love. Neither. But, a desire, a
not-so-well-articuated prayer. And, Eve. Breaks. My
own tongue, tied. My fingers, wrapped
around her comb-teeths. Work. Working. Can’t rest.