Gold and green
sweet and sharp
wilful, aromatic
what is that?
mango…
Cooked or crushed
what flavours
chutneys, pickles and sweets
of which fruit
do I speak?
mango…
Whose tart taste
spiced childhood dreams
whose tang
lives in tastebuds
and in memories
that itch
under skin?
mango…
What is revered with
a million names
what nourishes souls
unravels conundrums
gives it all?
No, not god…
Mango!
Categories: food · life · mango · nature · poem · thoughts · words · writing
Two tomatoes, two potatoes, finely chopped. An onion too? Why not.
A little oil, warmed. Some cumin seeds. Let them sputter.
One whole red chilly. Fried until you can’t breathe without coughing from its hot vapours.
Then, a flurry. Onions browned, potatoes, tomatoes, rice, dal — everything dunked in together.
In ten minutes, there is a meal.
Hot, nourishing. We slurp it up with cold curd. And marvel at our good fortune.
Look, we say, what a feast. And I thought cooking was difficult, I laugh.
No, that’s just a myth. Perpetuated by perfectionist mothers. And nitpicking grandmothers.
We laugh some more. Sated with khichdi — humblest of meals.
No, we say, food fit for the gods…
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