my palate is liaised to
my nani
my amma
nani would feed away our hours together
till maa returned home
she would soak her love into garlic cloves
and grind the masala on the mortar
her wrists bearing traces
of the grace of Gaudiya Nritya.
all she wants from me is to call
sometimes
maybe once
but a million calls would never be the
right exchange for
the aroma of her kosha mangsho.
amma is rather rococo
bringing out her besan laddoo
during Diwali.
she would pour her warmth into the
bubbling ghee
I ate unknowing the
Infinity
that lay in them.
she no longer cooks
for her memory fails her;
but we know that the laddoo recipe
would never fail her legacy,
travelling through elaichi-scented pages
keeping unscathed our history.
I never knew love was edible,
until I ate too much.
