Those days when my Mom made my plaits.

Those were the golden days

When  my mother,  fondly  plaited  my hair

Standing behind me, while  the appetizing aroma of puri and chhole

 Wafted in the fresh morning air.

She would rush out of  the kitchen  holding a steel lunch  box,

 tucking it in my satchel , she headed towards the dressing table

Where I waited for her to  braid my  plaits, two smooth and immaculate,

Which didn’t suite  my taste yet had to  abide by a schoolgirl’s trait.

Smoothening  my hair, she would religiously advice with a distinctive flair

Of  how crucial was teenage  when one should  prepare to sit  for GATE

Keeping at bay, all insane thoughts of fashion and mate.

And when I fidgeted, with the slightest prod of the comb would warn me of getting late.

I  would absorb  the morning sun that  smiled through the curtains ,

Exuding  the perfect   amount of warmth and freshness,

and occasionally the mirror would reflect her  anxiety  behind her calmness,

As she braided blessings to ward off  evil eyes.

Those were the nights when she oiled my hair

Massaging in the wisdom of life that she wanted me to take care.

Combing away my fears, she enunciated the importance of nourishing the    roots,

Be it of the wavy mass on the head or a noble adulthood.

I would initially rebel at  being  made to sit still,

Then feeling  love  radiate from of her gentle fingers to my scalp ,

 I would give in, secretly  enjoying  the massage,

A pain, imagining  a world  without her one day, would then  implode    my heart.

Note: Puri – an Indian bread made by deep frying

Chhole – an Indian spicy dish made by chick peas.

GATE _ General Aptitude Test in Engineering.

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