By Nirjara Akkole

[A d m i r a t i o n]
The metal dabba, a silent conductor, poised on the shelf’s ledge
My mother’s hands cradle its flavor, releasing a whimsical harmony
From the pot
Aromatic waves ascend in a paradisiacal dance
She tosses a pinch of jeera
With intrinsic grace

The saabzi, a delicate roast
Enveloped in a velvety coating
Each dollop divine
Each spice intermingling in a tasteful frolic
The asafoetida’s tingle and the mustard seeds pungent bite
A harmonious sonnet that rings through my mouth

[E x a s p e r a t i o n]
Evening descends, my quotidian spot awaits
Impatience stews as the steaming pot meets the table
Resentment simmers
As my creamy fingernails brace
For haldi’s putrid stain
A spoon lifts reluctantly
A strenuous swallow of the over flavored cuisine

“Roti and sabzi again, Mama?”
The query slices through.
A discordant tone of exasperation
Yearning a departure from the metal walls of the spice box

“One day, you will long for your mother’s culinary embrace.”

[R e a l i z a t i o n]
My mother stands
Her frails hands clenching the counter’s edge
The purple hued veins
Protruding through her porcelain skin
Her luxuriant black tresses
Come undone with the swoop of a finger
Her decadent locks laying in the palm
Of her frail hand

Days unfold, each week more fickle than the last
Her demeanor shifting
Deliquescing into a brew of blanched liquid
Chemicals pumped
Her ribs, like the ancient pillars of an aged fruit stand
Are bowing inward under the pressure
Of the raging toxins

My luminous mother
Light flickering under the burden
Of her exuding illness

By what means can I swallow
The tasteless cuisine that hurdles down my pipe
My tongue shriveled
Into a dry and barren morsel of flesh
Robbed from her culinary wonder

[A c c e p t a n c e]
The metal dabba
Abandoned.
Collecting a rampant layer of dust.
Once the maestro orchestrating
The aromatic symphony in my kitchen
Sits as a relic of bygone flavor

In solitude
My hands instinctively toy
With the box’s lid
The lid creaks agape
The scent of coriander, turmeric, and cumin waft
Into the air like phantoms of our culinary past

A pinch of cumin
Meets the sizzling oil, their touch kindling
An homage to my legacy.
The kitchen, once swathed in silence
Comes alive with the sizzle and crack
Of the savory symphony
I proffer my creation
Behold my mother’s eyes
A labor of passion
Infused with budding nostalgia
The ballad of my pot
Disparate yet similar
Conducts the same solace

The bittersweet communion of flavors
Bridge the gaping abyss between
What was
And what remains

–

Nirjara Akkole is a current junior from Massachusetts. In her free time, she enjoys performing and watching Indian Classical Dance as well as sewing. At her school, she is the President of the Speech and Debate Team and Captain of the Varsity Tennis Team.