THE KITCHEN
There is a redolent aroma
wafting past a termite infested mound
we still call it a door-
as I wonder what brews inside the pressure cooker,
(we have three of those, three sizes yes
and in three colours too)
a loud rattle invites my long nose in.
Hence, heralding my arrival.
I see a man I call Deuta
in his lane, marinating a Rohu, or a Boriyola or a Puthi
and perhaps a Jayanta Hazarika dangling on his lips.
Beside him, there stands a little woman
in a warm housecoat and eyes poised on the milk
about to overflow through the stained steel of a pan.
And while Maa calls out my nickname
prefixed with an adorable “Ow”,
I'm there, with all 32 on a display,
eyes glued to a big bowl of “ghugni”
and brain at a round table conference
strategizing my way to the lion's share.
I'm beware of my beloved enemy,
sword is on the go, sister dearie!
I have been through this door
past so many lives I've lived
at suppers and at dinners
at hurried breakfasts and relaxed lunches.
There's always Maa, or perhaps Deuta,
or a dear dear sister
or these homes altogether;
filling in my bell metalled plate,
never letting my dal bowl die.
Perhaps sitting beside to digest my half cooked tales
or my recipe to get stuck in a library gate in front of some wretched crowd,
reminding me to be careful with the fishbones.
They might yawn, but i would relentlessly continue
until I'm satiated, with happiness and with love.
The population fluctuates,
and I do know a deduction is inevitable.
Still I breathe in now, and let the kitchen towels stain.
Not in sorrow, but at ease.
The sink has hues to its fate.
One day it digests anger,
the other day, pecks of pure bliss.
But sure its plumbing is long accustomed
to everything mixed with an uncompromised affection.
The starch of the new variety of rice
or the inedible Bhindis from the garden downstairs, the saltless curry or the overcooked dal-
every and anything from the busy cookery.
Our kitchen is a large place
for we fight a lot, a war ensued
when everyone's donning the stove.
And it is a place to learn by heart the aromas.
The aromas of ginger garlic paste,
winter ridden sweaters, many a hilarious evenings, hasty treats, and selfish afternoons.
There is a cinematic timespan
like a rajdhani billowing its way to a capital-
of inching closer to the stove and knives
till the two kids too can well own those 3 cookers.
So subtle so painstakingly pleasant,
how the tea table arrangement changed from
two steaming cups of chocolate milk, and two cups of sugared milk tea-
to three cups of sugar free milked tea
and a sugared one, alongside the only constant of a good rusk.
Our years sprinted past the yellow mullioned windows of the kitchen.
While there might be a confusion
about the masterchef to the perfect cup of “saah”,
a winner is declared for most recipes.
And as we leave the nourishing granite counter
to go ahead onto our little business trips
we leave upon it some biscuit bits.
We know we sin, but there's a coming back
So we'll pick up our rebukes, grinning eye to eye,
pretend to never care and go to bed.
Our Pakghor, comes with a history textbook.
Notes:-
Rohu, Boriyola, Puthi- Assamese names of some fish
Deuta- Father in Assamese
Jayanta Hazarika- The Jazz emperor of Assamese music
Saah- Tea
Pakghor- The Assamese kitchen