Monsoon cooking

Familiar fragrances
of the traditional monsoon platter
waft in the air.
The rain washes my grown-up heart,
breathing life
in the pores of my skin and soul.
“Do you know how to cook this?”
I nod in negative.
And there begin my lessons:
A dash of this, a pinch of that.
Some grilling. Some flipping.
Some abracadabra mom special magic.
Recipe, perfect in every way.
As I gorge upon the second helping greedily,
I wonder if I can master it. Ever.
I tell her I’ll need more lessons
but first
I rush out to greet
the fresh bout of rain.

Linking with 100 word challenge : Cook : Thin Spiral Notebook

Growing up

He made me see his presentation.
And boy! I was so amazed
with the use of animations and effects.
Some presentation.
One look at him, one at his project.
My eyes watered.
There was time when he used to sit in my lap
and learn paint.
Today I felt I could learn PowerPoint from him.
Earlier in the day too, he had surprised me.
I had asked him for a glass of water.
Not finding any unused glass in rack,
he washed the used ones.
Four of them. One for each person in the room.
One bottle of water.
Balanced the glasses on the bottle strategically.
And smilingly, he served us all.
My heart swelled with pride.
They do grow up fast.
Don’t they?

Farewell

You were born.
And your birth made him so happy
that he cried.
He held you in his hands
with reverence.
And he spent every second
of his short break
looking after you with love.
But you were too small, too infantile,
to register the word father.
Then he left. For his duty.
Service to family over,
it was time to serve the nation.
He had served his family with love.
He served his nation with sacrifice.
When they brought him home,
wrapped in tricolour,
the sad commotion surprised
the wide eyed toddler in you.
When they laid him in lobby,
you crawled up to his motionless body,
gently shaking his shoulder,
as if he would wake up from his eternal slumber.
When they laid him in coffin with state honours,
you patted the wooden box, repeatedly,
to hear the dull thud
your small hands made against rough wood.
Recognition, zero. Outright organic innocence.
That stirred the souls of the entire nation.
You may not recall this when you grow up,
but we do hope that you become his shadow.
Conscientiously dutiful

Yesterday night, he slept

Late again.
But her colleagues knew the reason.
So they did not seek explanations.
A middle aged woman,
experienced both in life and workplace,
stood at crossroads.
This was the least the office could do.
The patriarch of her family
had been admitted in semi-coma condition last month.
Only last week the doctors had sent them home.
“The hospital has done what it could do”.
It was prayer and serving and support now.
Prayers and life support machine.
Alive.
His heart beating, eyes blinking
blood flowing in the veins,
if it is called living.
Yesterday we exchanged a word with her.
“We are waiting, someday now he will ask of us,
He will wish for his favourite food,
He will recognize us”.
Yesterday night he slept.
And never woke up.
Today she was on leave.
Will be for a few days.
We observed a two minute silence dutifully
and proceeded with the day.
But my thoughts keep drifting
to that kid in her
who was waiting for her father to get well soon.

The hawker

Between 7:30 to 8:00,
when the dusk blends in night,
I wait for his distinct shrill call,
loud and ringing,
“Vegetables“.
Occasionally, I run out ,
to stop him,
preferably at the turn of the lane,
right beneath the streetlight,
so that I can select the right veggies in emergencies.
I see his hands, rough and soiled,
his old face withered,
his body leaning on his cart,
his legs damaged,
bent by the burdens and travails,
and I suppress a shiver.
As I pay him for my purchase,
I see a faint glint in his eyes.
The exchange over,
He moves away in the dusty dark lane.
As I bolt the gate, I can see his bent silhouette
dragging the cart by his body weight,
his call for vegetables fading.