Affection

                                                                     
                                             
Its the morning rush as I get ready for another flight to Bombay. There's a wordless lull as my mother seeks things to busy herself with - after having promptly finished all the work on the previous evening. Her daughter must seem like an alien creature who wears her tam-bram hair open, turns left and then right, adjusting her strap. This morning she decides that she wants to plait her hair - something she grew up always wanting to do, but never got round to. Single plaits were a mark of 'womanhood', while double plaits were girly and innocent. 

My mother suddenly offers to do it and I gladly let her. For a ritual is being performed - perhaps a couple of decades too late, but even so. In the act of plaiting and having one's hair plaited both women are transported - the mother to memories of her grandmother plaiting her hair. " 'Tight and thick', she used to say..and then I would steal to the other room to try and loosen it up." 
" Make it tight", say I. " I like how definite it feels."

Soon the plaiting is done and mother admires the result. " Wish you were here everyday, then I could plait your hair..." Uncomfortable now, both of them nod a smile and look away. 

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"Doesn't your mother kiss you and tuck you into bed?", she asked her once. The girl shook her head a little too vigorously, trying to shake away a choke. 

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Ritualised expressions make her uncomfortable. Loud pecks on cheeks always make her look away. Shouldn't it it always be present in the unsaid?