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Hand me down

Shobhana Kumar

it’s not about the tamarind or salt.
or even the spices.
it’s about patience—
                like a well-worn kanjeevaram.

it is about how you watch it bubble
into a simmer as it leaves behind
thin, sun rings around the rims.

it is about knowing that moment
when it just hushes
into a murmur—
like a lover, spent.

and then, when you inhale its completeness,
you’ll know your rasam is ready.’

abstract nouns aren’t good for
 teaspoon-ounce-measured
sensibilities.

‘you’ll know when you’ve made it
a thousand times.
it’s like meditation.’
ma said.

i’ve lost count of the atempts,
but i am still trying to retrace the epiphany
to that day.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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