Hall Matron, Miss Naraman  
Reetika Vaziriani

In maths, Geeta sits in front of me, long black plait --
and Helen's, blue ribbon on her frizzled braid --
not very tidy even if Hall Matron is strict.
I am busy and you always muss up your hair --
what would your mothers say --
biting your nails and not sitting straight.

We did sit straight, but slumped when Hall Matron passed us;
and with the others I think her stern,
her gloomy apron and starched dress.

But it wasn't so -- I knew at holidays
when the others boarded the train
towards Delhi, and Hall Matron, Miss Naraman,

a Christian lady from Kerala,
took me to Land Cottage, her private bungalow
behind the Headmaster's quarters, to mind me.

Maya, my mother is old and gone.
Your mother is not here.
All god's children take shelter on the earth,

even in the mountains, where it is quiet
at Christmas. When Jesus was born,
it was very quiet, like this.



The Divorce
Reetika vaziriani

Boarding School, 1945
We get measured and weighed in the spring
and once again in the fall.
But who knows why I am short?
All my energy goes running up and down the mountain:
strange mountains -- you run up and up for a long time,
but on the map it looks only inches from school.
Mail takes a long time and it never comes,
but I am not long like that --
me on tiptoes passing the windowpane --
I am short and I wish for distance --
being taller and far from Delhi, and the sari
my mother wore before the judge in robes.
Good-bye, my dear. Good-bye Mother.
And it is never like that again, lustrous silk, shaking.











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