Rites of Passage
Source : The Indian Express She stands looming over me, and I feel the tic tac graze my scalp. The grasp is firm, the callused hand balances my head from teetering back. She adorns a saree, it is tamarind tinged. Two black beads; and a maroon dot stare at me, with intent. She appraises me, having secured the jet-blackness of my untamed hair, which she nurses religiously with home ground shikakai . My eyes sting at the seams, and I feel my cheeks wrinkled and puffy. I shuffle about in the...
