One strand to other

He asked me once, almost casually,
“Why don’t your people cut their hair?”
I paused—
I looked inward before I looked at him,
tracing a story older than my name.   

Long roots holding my heritage uptight,

the untouched legacy running through centuries' flight,      whispering stories of ancestral sacrifice all day and night.

Do you know our importance? asked ,me one hair strand 

I was silent- my head bowed instinctively.

"We are not just threads, but your history's breath."

Naive me, started to reflect upon my mother's teachings,

she combed my hair and told me stories,

not just stories, but the echoes of my forefathers,

Who chose crowns of courage over blades of conformity.

Each strand a vow, each knot a prayer,
Tied in the rhythm of kirtan and care.
She said, 'These are not to be trimmed or styled for show',
They are the rivers through which our faith flows.

Yet, outside the sheltering arms of my mother, 
is the world interrogates my being.
But I don't care, neither a bit,
as it is order of the creator who always,
whose creation is already complete.