Fridays

Monday morning i kiss you lightly

Some times when you're snoring

Sometimes unaware that I'm up

And leaving with a heavy heart

I hate the flight and I hate the airport

And I hate every cab that distances us 

Six hours later when I land in a different city

Yours is the first text I seek

And mentally I start counting the hours

Until Friday Night

Mondays are the longest and hardest

On my mind and body both

The hour count seems impossibly away

But in the evening i atleast get to see you

On the other side of the screen

Tuesday mornings I'm on for work

And you're my first call of the day

As is for Wednesdays Thursdays and Fridays

Every morning afternoon evening night

You're in my texts

But every moment you're in my heart

Friday afternoons are so much happier

The hours are finally in single digits

The airport is fun, the flight is cheerful

Because its taking me close to you

As the plane slowly descends

The city lights brighten up my mood

Friday nights I bury into your arms

Friday nights I be home again

Friday nights my kisses are always harder

Friday nights my hugs are always tighter

Friday nights I'm the happiest in the week

Friday nights have no nightmares,

Just a beautiful Saturday morning

To wake up next to you..

Hollow

There's a hollow inside
Persistently present
Making me realize
The true value of your loss

That hollow is a reminder
Of every unkind word to you
Of every unkind deed to you
Of everything you were to me
that I wasn't to you

You held my hand 
Since I was a little girl
I held your hand back
Since your legs gave away
Since the disease started
gnawing at you
Taking you away,
Piece by piece

I am haunted by
Your last few days
And shamed by
my behavior then
I should have been kinder
I should have been wiser
And you didn't hate me then too

I miss you
The form of you before
The disease took you away
First the mind
Then the body
Then I guess, all of you

I miss how you cooked for me
Took me in, shielded me
Taught me, scolded me
How you were possessive of me

I see a little of you in me
How can I not?
I grew up with you

And now I choose selfishly
How much of you to keep
How much of you to let go
How much hollow to feel
How much of the hollow to fill

The Bay of The Awaited

 Will you sail with me

For the journey that’s ahead?

I set sail a long time ago

But I’ll pull you in

On this voyage to

The Bay of the Awaited

Some destinations will await

Before the last and final one

A lot of this journey is planned for

But so many courses are unchartered

And I need an explorer, a compass bearer

Will you be that for me? 

You know what awaits

Some strong tides

Some kind winds

A few hardy storms

A million wondrous sights

Thousands of sunrises 

Bringing promises of tomorrow

And thousands of sunsets

Setting down all past

There shall be seasons of joy

And of gloom, some of impending doom

Some seasons when it may all seem

To wreck and fall apart

I can ensure we sail through

I promise to be

the anchor, the sail,

the captain, the help,

the chef, the medic

the friend, the confidante

Everything you can need

And then some more

Maybe on some days

You can be that too

Do you have what it takes

To embark on this voyage

To the Bay of the Awaited?

A loving smile, a penny for a rainy day?

A brave head and a kind heart?

Also some gumption

And patience for the family?

Come over then, for I am ready

Let’s sail off into the sunset

Into the Bay of the Awaited

Serendipity, knack and a gurgling stomach

My wok heats up and I take out some mustard seeds. My cumin seeds are already ready in the cover of their container. 

I see tiny bubbles in my hot oil, my instinct precise. 

I add mustard seeds and cumin seeds to the oil and wait with baited breath.

"Mee maja harapun basle ga.." Asha-taai's melodious voice fills my kitchen.

I add hing, the smell telling me my tadka is going to be a success. I sing-along to Asha-tai, my head nodding to the beautiful words.

I never knew when I got transformed into a cook. 

I know it was the pandemic that closed all doors suddenly one day and one has to eat. While most people resort to their trusted formulations that at times fend off days, I cooked fresh food thrice a day. 

What I didn't predict for myself was my instinct, my knack of taste and my balance of heat. 

Yes, I am a chemical engineer. I understand how it's all a play of heat transfer and mass transfer while carefully balancing flow and pressure. 

It's as if my equations float around in the air invisible to other but quite vividly to me. It makes sense you know, and it's just like drawing perfect circles or a neat square with its shapely orthogonal finishes. 

The smells, the taste, the heat, the stroke of my ladle on my wok.. seems just like poetry to me..
Something that's meant to happen so naturally..

"Mee maja harpun basle ga.."

Atrophy

First you just don't want to

For one day, then two, then five

Then a week, maybe two

Or a month or a few of those

Then you get rusty.

You try, but you're a bit off.

There's some anger, 

Maybe disappointment in yourself..

That you can't do 

what you easily could..

So then you choose to try

Or you choose to stop

If you stop..

First you feel elated

Then maybe bored

But hey, you don't need to pack the punches

Do you?

Then slowly it goes away

First from your mind

Then maybe from your body

A muscle loses steam

Then two, then five, then all

There exists a fleeting shadow 

A memory of what was

First physically, then even from your brain

Or ofcourse, 

You can choose not to stop