Poems | Poornima Laxmeshwar

    Chronicles of an obligatory cook

1.

You were a man of procedures

To win your heart I had to unravel the enigma

of flavours that made you, of jackfruit curry that

could linger on your fingertips, of fried bhindis

that could appeal your appetite

of vegetables alone as they stood unforbidden

I had to undo my years at hostel

where all I ever learnt was

how to make Maggi

And the only lesson I drew from it was

it never happens in two minutes

2.

You are a man of precision

Can tell a burnt mustard from a finely roasted one

twitch the nose at the smell of a single clove

of garlic in a bowl of dal, know the sweetness of the

Payasam by the mere fragrance of it

As I deal with the leftovers

convince them to taste good

every noon while you eat away your lunch I pack

in the morning

3.

Amma was worried

she knew I didn’t know the art of making

Idlis tender as jasmine and Dosas crisp as Appa’s opinion

on gold shopping, so she wasn’t sure about how to praise

my cooking skill the first time you visited us to see me

So she smiled and smiled some more

until we were left alone to discuss other priorities

Her only relief that evening was

that we didn’t talk about herbs and spices

but instead spoke about careers and long-term life plans

4.

Jowar rotis are the toughest if you ever ask me

They need knack, love and stamina in equal proportions

No, don’t get ideas

You knead the flour in hot water, on and on

Wait for it to be mushy like a romantic Bollywood duet

Then you spread it on the floor and go thap-thap-thap

in between you shouldn’t forget to rotate it

and again thap-thap-thap till it looks

like a parched moon, you pick it gently

as your lover’s letter while the tawa stares at you

with the worldly sarcasm

5.

But you must like cooking they insist

6.

At the dining table you throw a list

of observations and feedback that sounds like a

title of a spoken word piece

Ten ways to improvise your cooking skill

While I collect them with caution

store it in the Bharani, ajji gifted

awaiting the pickles and your words

to marinate, settle quietly

with time