This evening I cooked with my mother,
adding turmeric to almost every dish and
I thought, “how very Indian of us,” but
when I say I love orange, I meant
the orange of a pumpkin, an apricot, carrots.
The orange of safety vests, a traffic cone,
the orange in any thing,
But not the orange on my hands.
I sit in class and hide my hands
underneath my thighs, inside my bag;
always searching for something I purposely forgot.
I curl my fingers around my pen – a fist of shame
till my handwriting is not my own.
I am ashamed.
Ashamed of people and their thoughts
on yellow hands.
Mother always taught me to wash my hands twice
after dinner.
But
what can I do,
when culture clings to my nails –
waiting, to be shown off to the first person I meet.
This shame has evolved.
Now it is a shame of touching food.
When I was in college,
I spent a whole year eating with a spoon
just to avoid orange.
Just so I can tuck my hair behind my ears
without any anxiety.
I denied myself the joy
of eating with my hands, just to feel pretty.
But this evening, I cooked with my mother.
I refilled our little turmeric jar and
gave it back to her.
I watched her add color to our food and said,
“Maybe, just a little more.”