Ajrak by Nirvaa Shah
My grandma has the kind of hair that never grows white.
As a child, I rejoiced in making French braids and high buns out of its thick curls. I wrote my own stories within the
impenetrable knots of marriage and motherhood, weaving through her silky strands that seemed to extend for miles.
The comb that would agitate my own coiled hair would billow through hers, without the slightest effort.
I remember seeing her oil it, one Sunday evening. Letting its greasy remains seep into her roots until her waves
shone like the stars in the night sky. And every day onwards, she would repeat her routine thinking it was the oil that
made her hair sparkle black.
But regardless of how much oil she had splattered onto her head, innocent strands of her hair would pull out, unable
to bear their own weight.
Neither the homemade coconut oil, nor the ripe almond oil could save them. But she’d find her way by mixing them
into messy concoctions until her fatigue would slowly catch up to her. The comb that was once white had now been
stained in hues of yellow and muddy whites.
Looking into the mirror, I stare at my face.
I imagine it growing old like aged cheese, but with hair that reads black at every edge.
Should I love it, or hate it?
Writer’s Note:
Ajrak is a textile woven to symmetry, cradled in my grandmother’s hometown of Kutch, India. Its starry prints and darkly-toned dyes are known to reflect the moods of the galaxy. Like ajrak, my grandmother’s hair reflects hues of patriarchy, however, there is a dissonance and a hierarchy. Yet both her hair and the cloth appear beautiful at first glance. Through this poem I hope to echo this asymmetry in two things meant to be simply admired, but never fully understood.