'Offerings' by Susmita Bhattacharya

Lotus
Your mother had offered a lotus to the goddess when you were born. She’d prayed for a son, but you emerged, screaming your lungs out. ‘Just like a boy,’ she’d said, as if comforting herself while taking you in her arms.

Marigold
The conjugal bed is bedecked with marigold and roses. The sheets are white and satin soft. You lie on it and worry if your husband will question your virginity. Later, you will wonder why you didn’t question his.

Daffodils
They welcome you to your new life in a new country. You know that poem of course, but to actually see daffodils dancing in the wind? You smile at the warmth and hope they promise you.

Sunflower
Your mother offers a sunflower from your garden to the goddess when you go into labour. ‘For a healthy-’ she hesitates. ‘Child.’ You smile as a boy slips into your arms, slimy and red, angry like the hot summer sun.

Chamomile
You offer your mother chamomile tea, and she winces every time she takes a sip. She is but a wisp on the bed, her body no longer with the parts that nourished you as a baby. You want to hold her hand, stroke her face, but you can’t. You are all business-like. You need to win over this disease. She asks you to offer jasmine to her goddess. Not until you are better, you say.

Jasmine
You place each flower carefully on her shroud. She’d said you had done more for her than any son would ever have. Yet you feel you have failed her.
‘Hope you are happy to have your most faithful devotee to keep you company. But no more flowers from me to you.’

You tuck a jasmine in your hair and stare at the goddess defiantly.