Ma, today the rajma rice was just like you used to cook.
And, the sooran (yam) masala would have made you proud.
Your little girl has finally reached that pinnacle of cooking, something you feared I would languish in slogging interiors of sooty sweaty kitchen places.
But, I am no cook like you or a polished foodie like Papa.
So, try as I might, I just can't embrace the warmth of the art of cooking.
I am content with the simple food that scrapes my tongue with its marinated taste and fills my stomach.
Every time I cook something exotic I remember you Ma.
"Ma hothin tho aisa hotha.
Ma hothin tho aisa kehtein."
Somebody to hug my cooking and me.
Someone to relish the dishes I make without pretence or pain.
You fed me all those years with maternal warmth.
Today, when I want to do the same you smile from another realm, tasting food in the astral world.
*published in the poetry ezine, poetryparlour.com
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