Poetry
Anannya Uberoi
Our mothers worked in
soot furnaces late into nights
until their skins became
reflections of the fire
before them.
Our mothers chopped and cooked
pots of curry in the hours between.
They tied our hair up in petite buns
as their own so they would not
fall when we snaked around
the banyan tree or tugged at
its upturned roots.