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Washed in the silver flowing
From the taps into the sink,
Then drained of its last drop,
Kept with some time to let them dry,
Then mixed with yellow
Turmeric powder from China,
Black pepper from another country
And from another land light gray ginger, then
A spoonful of sambhar powder
Home-made from Mysore – a souvenir -
Of the first meeting;
(Depleting every day with the ever-lingering flavor)
All drawn in
In one bowl.
Small pieces carefully cut
Dropped slowly - one by one -
In a pan of hot see-through
Sunflower oil, the mustard seeds
Bought from Patna, told by the shopkeeper
Were from the native land,
Kept in Mumbai with care-
And brought some here flying
By different airways,
Were waiting, unhomed,
In the pan;
Glowing
O my goodness! I forgot to put
The local garlic paste into
This dish of fish, the pieces sat
In a circle on a purple canvas
Shimmering, complaining, sent
A flying mustard seed to stain
With yellow my light blue shirt-
Throws a resentful glance
At my carelessness-
And the pieces of fish whisper of
Their unease
And
We
And we
Standing in the kitchen
Together trying to talk
Away our unhomeliness with our
Stories from home in a home
Away from home - complaining
Pieces of fish become bigger with the heat-
Softer, and we are like birds without
Wings nibbling at the chapattis
Rolled out of wheat-flour from Australia.
The spongy pieces of fish are
Waiting - in a casserole of golden
Curry – their cozy home -
Wingless birds,
Stirring -
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