Instead of apology, there is rice.

When the words cannot find their way

there are always second helpings.

Your favorite curry generously offered.

At dinner: dollops of ghee on gola bhaat

and soft-boiled duck eggs to accompany, ready 

to melt in your mouth. Instead of gratitude 

always hands, working in the alluvial space 

of the kitchen. Smoke curling, carrying the rich

aroma of possibilities: batter-fried pumpkin blossoms 

with your favorite daal or after a bitter fight 

the offering of a hearty fish curry. My mother adept

at never saying it straight. It matters how we see 

things — a steaming plate of khichdi on a rainy 

day: a substitute to soothe a kid’s ailing heart 

that cannot go out to play, or the lack of toys

an opportunity: to create a new recipe 

for generational joy. It matters how we say

things — the first rule I learnt: showing 

is always more than saying. My earliest 

lesson in love: when done well, it is a verb.

 

18-step skincare routines and curated 

wardrobe essentials don’t interest me. 

Tired of seeing through the mirror, I cut 

bangs and now catch glimpses only in puddles 

and rolled-up car windows while fielding 

questions of heartbreak. In an age where I could 

have it all, I desire more meaning. I believe 

in the fragility of my throbbing body 

at a discotheque and this half-life that could be 

snatched at any moment. I am so bad

at looking the part — Where is the vermilion if

I am married? Where’s the pencil skirt and lipstick if

I work in corporate? When’s the baby coming if

I am a woman? Where’s the sacrifice if I am a wife?

It’s all in the optics and how long you survive

on the hamster wheel. When I video-call Ma she greets

without missing a beat — you look fat. This is how

love operates. I shouldn’t trade this for a diet

plan or gym membership or even immortality. I have looked

fat since 15 and Ma has looked happy forever.

As far as I am concerned, she wins. I am flat-footed

and unable to swim or drive or run. But Sadhguru says

33 & 42 are the best ages to manifest. This is

the time to be bolstered into the best reality one could

possibly imagine in one’s lifetime. I am grateful. God

is after all, great with second chances. In any case 

60 is the new 30. And between now

and then, I could learn to run.

 

& fathers work nine to five jobs

         diligently amassing dowry

& the Jamshedpur steel plant thumps

with the fervour of an athlete’s heart & dog shows 

          & book fairs — annual winter occurrences

 

Mothers pray for daughters here

& save pennies in flour tins for emergencies —

        hospital bills or posting bail 

while this town remains resistant — to malls

even an airport — as if it were a new bride, needing

                protection from foreign elements

 

Mothers pray for daughters while no one notices 

the French architecture standing tall at the market square 

          or the English clubhouses full of Parsi women

playing bridge on alternate afternoons

and always a birthday cake from Brubeck’s — the patisserie 

          everyone loves — the pianist no one remembers

                   

& Mothers pray for daughters to not be 

found at Jubilee Park eliciting the entire town’s 

             gossip & a boy may spend the night in jail —

this industrial town always aglow with the ever-burning 

            furnace of the steel mill & no one sees a tribal girl 

being pushed into the arms of the raging Subarnarekha 

or that of a scorned lover — all roads to the same end — 

but everyone bears witness to the murder of a Businessman

  two men on a motorbike, firing, one shot in the air 

& one at the target on a hot afternoon — gunshot lost 

        in the hullabaloo of school bells tolling, boys gathering 

around the masala-colawala outside the school gates to claim 

their girls & girls trading gossip 

at the panipuri stall waiting to be claimed, 

         their fear of being a headline in the local newspaper 

overshadowed — in my hometown, mothers pray

        for their daughters to not stray — afraid, lest they be claimed

& no one bears witness         no one bears         no

At the restaurant, course upon course of an elaborate
degustation. Every dish, a deconstruction of a complete thing. The tables
are full and the seats warm. Portion sizes, small. To keep it classy. The
music, crystalline in the silence. Not even the clink of silverware on 

china. This is not a place for conversation. But contemplation. A serious
place for serious business. I don’t understand this obsession with taking
things apart but I am told it is in vogue. The carcass of a burger, the body
of a shepherd’s pie laid out. If one were obsessed with seeing in detail
what they were eating, why not have a salad? 

No wonder divorce rates are soaring. My mother says it's this
need to know, this need to figure out everything that’s spoiled our
generation. I am not surprised when someone in the family insinuates
that my husband might be seeing someone else on the sly. But I am taken
aback by the fact that the notion does not bother me. Is this a feat or a
failure? Maybe there is assurance to be gained from this act of
dissection. In the warm glow of the modernist lamp, we smile at each
other across the table between spoonfuls of tiramisu, ladyfingers
crumbling. His favorite.

The lake is white, the mountain milky-white, the fox crossing the highway snow-white. One
could easily miss its tender body if not for its quick movement. White the horizon, and even
the sun salt-white swallowing everything into its fold. Your knuckles gripping the steering
wheel, white as the vanishing landscape in the rearview mirror. The low hum of the car, white
noise for miles and miles. This is how we get accustomed to our many griefs calcifying
endlessly. Just moments of looking outside the window into the scenery like swathes of blank
paper tires me out, lulls me into sleep’s territory while you get us ahead of a predicted
snowstorm. We are far from home, and you cannot take your eyes off the road. So you do the
next possible thing, take your one hand off the wheel to hold mine. Soon an arctic night would
fall, cerulean and almost unbearable.