By Deepti Gupta
KƏr lay kƏr lay to me my mom would say. KƏr lo kƏr lo to my son do I now say. Do it Do it it translates in Hindi, Like a chant I heard it so much as a kid. God didn’t bless me with the daily Do It genes. I’d fret and grunt as I sat on the Indian latrine. Legs wide apart butt hanging in the air, expectant I sat hoping for my fair share. My mother conversely is like clockwork. a cup of water down insta-pot like she goes. I had a cousin who would sing himself to poop. I have relatives who need a cup of chai to “do”. I’ve grown up now and live in another country. You’d think this affliction would’ve left me. Let me tell you now my son loves potty talk. He sits on his kid potty and lets his rockets out. My husband and I smile at each other in glee when he yells to us Mummy, mainey kƏr lee. (I’ve done it)
This poem is from The Feminist Toilet #1. To go back and read more, click here.