Natal Homing
Saheli Khastagir
For Mysore Sandal Soap
The day I saw you hiding at the back of the bottom row
in the toiletries aisle of the International Market,
I knew without doubt that home is a smell.
It is how the salmon makes its way back from the sea to the freshwater
finding the exact stream of its birth.
I held you and I held the portal to my home.
If you could speak, I know you would speak in Bangla.
There are no essential oils that can replace you.
You are my oil lamp that I rub
to bring my foremothers by my bathtub
instructing me how to take care of my skin.
Your golden skin and round face
holds my summer vacations,
the familiarity of those bathrooms with its permanently wet floors,
the constancy of the same jammed doorknobs,
and knowing someone will always hand the towel I forgot to take in with me.
You’re hardy, you’re tough,
you know all our secrets, you’re worse than a photo album
You know of the bathroom weepings, the bathroom beatings.
You were with me when mother went to the hospital to bring my brother,
and when we got the chicken pox.
You watched me think, you watched me grow,
you watched my body make waves.
And now here you are,
watching me grow roots.
I’ll plant you in my house garden,
so my daughters and nieces
can follow your scent home.
The day I saw you hiding at the back of the bottom row
in the toiletries aisle of the International Market,
I knew without doubt that home is a smell.
It is how the salmon makes its way back from the sea to the freshwater
finding the exact stream of its birth.
I held you and I held the portal to my home.
If you could speak, I know you would speak in Bangla.
There are no essential oils that can replace you.
You are my oil lamp that I rub
to bring my foremothers by my bathtub
instructing me how to take care of my skin.
Your golden skin and round face
holds my summer vacations,
the familiarity of those bathrooms with its permanently wet floors,
the constancy of the same jammed doorknobs,
and knowing someone will always hand the towel I forgot to take in with me.
You’re hardy, you’re tough,
you know all our secrets, you’re worse than a photo album
You know of the bathroom weepings, the bathroom beatings.
You were with me when mother went to the hospital to bring my brother,
and when we got the chicken pox.
You watched me think, you watched me grow,
you watched my body make waves.
And now here you are,
watching me grow roots.
I’ll plant you in my house garden,
so my daughters and nieces
can follow your scent home.
Saheli Khastagir is a writer, painter and an international development professional from India, based in New Orleans. Her recent work has appeared in Prairie Fire, Current Affairs, Ligeia Magazine, Emrys, Full Stop, The Bombay Literary Magazine, and other publications and anthologies. You can visit her website at: www.sahelikhastagir.com
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