poem #6

 ... 

Food was always the centre of my house, 

and it was Ammi that made it for us. 

I think of those times when we were younger, 

eggs and fresh paratha, 

qeema and steaming pulao, 

kheer and gajar ka halwa. 

I remember Ammi's cooking, 

especially when I realise, 

that the kitchen I'm thinking of, 

is now derelict from lack of use.

Ammi is gone, 

as is her cooking. 

When I am sick, 

I long for her kichri, 

warm and soft, 

the taste of food, 

made by her hand. 

I remember Ammi's cooking, 

when I cook. 

I can try to replicate her pulao, 

but I can only manage parathas frozen, 

ready made. 

It is not the same. 

It  is difficult to eat and remember, 

the days of rain and her pakoras, 

the days of cold and her chai, 

hot, 

with a sweetness that lingered, 

and the days of summer warmth and her kheer. 

Now that she's gone, 

the chai leaves a bitter taste in my mouth, 

soured by her absence. 

No paratha is the same, 

and no kheer is as refreshing. 

When she was here, 

my days were sunny and bright. 

Now that she's gone, 

all my days are devoid of light.