Gold Featuring Neha Premanand

I’ve inherited my mother’s eyes,
Her charm, some gold and a few sarees.
I’ve inherited her language, her mannerisms, her rage.
And yet, sometimes she doesn’t recognise me and I, her.
Strangers fighting on opposite sides of a battle
Foot soldiers throwing ourselves at each others’ spears
Trying to figure out the way to become one, Become allies.
Combine our stories and forge new narratives.
To hand the daughters of the village
Something more substantial than gold.